


Just A Little Less Pain

by im_your_mom_now



Series: Kidnapped Peter Stories [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Completed, Drug Abuse, Heavy Themes, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Kidnapping, Manipulation, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Peter Parker Deserves Better, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Break, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker has PTSD, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Slow recovery, Temporary Amnesia, The author is sleep-deprived but thriving, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, peter is 16, recovery is a process yall, recovery is not linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 107,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28819044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_your_mom_now/pseuds/im_your_mom_now
Summary: "We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain."__The wool blanket is navy with some intricate threads of cream woven in. He traces a stitch with the pad of his thumb, but stops and frowns when he notices that his knuckles have healing yellow bruises on them.He wonders where that's from, then subsequently stiffens and wonders where the hell he is.Which, you know, leads him to his next question: Who is he?__Or: Peter wakes up with no memories in a remote cabin where a mysterious man tells him that they're married.__This work is part of a series, but it is meant to be read as a stand-alone as the stories in the series are all unrelated.
Relationships: It's Complicated, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker, but only for a little while in the first few chapters
Series: Kidnapped Peter Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154927
Comments: 563
Kudos: 460





	1. Fog

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19871395) by Anonymous. 



> Please mind the tags!
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> Rape/non-con  
> Non-consensual drug use

The first thing he registers is the cool draft that brushes over his smooth skin and gently blows his hair against his forehead. The second thing he registers is the thick wool blanket that covers his body chest-down, keeping his feet nice and warm. It smells faintly of a new puppy and cinnamon. The third thing he registers before opening his eyes is the occasional clicking of an oscillating fan.

The fan must be causing the breeze, he deducts. He's glad he has the blanket, but goosebumps arose over his skin left bare by the blanket. With a small frown, he pulls the blanket up and over his shoulders and under his chin, but the action causes the blanket to uncover his socked feet.

That's when he opens his eyes and glances down at his feet. The socks, white with gray soles and toes, are slightly big on him. He wiggles his toes a little before yawning and turning his attention to the room he's in. The walls are wooden, as are the floors, and the bed he's in is a king-sized. With a quick glance to his right, he makes more that he's alone. The fan making the clicking is in the corner by a dresser, which is on a wall adjacent to the wall beside him with a window with the drapes drawn. The wool blanket is navy with some intricate threads of cream woven in. He traces a stitch with the pad of his thumb, but stops and frowns when he notices that his knuckles have healing yellow bruises on them.

He wonders where that's from, then subsequently stiffens and wonders where the hell he is.

Which, you know, leads him to his next question: _Who_ is he?

With a jolt, the boy realizes that he can't remember _anything_. Well, he remembers that two plus two equals four and cows say moo and flour makes cookies rise and all that, but he can't remember anything about himself or his life. He doesn't even know what he looks like.

He may not remember anything, but he knows that this isn't normal and isn't supposed to happen. He knows that something is wrong.

He jerks to a sitting position at the sound of heavy footsteps outside the closed door. As he's scrambling away and pressing himself as back into the headboard as he can with his eyes glued to the door, said door opens.

A man, who looks to be in his mid-thirties, is stepping in when he looks up and meets the boy's eyes and freezes like a deer in headlights.

He scans the man with wide eyes—brown beard brown hair blue eyes muscular frame tall stature heavy boots clean jeans red flannel—and tries to dig deep into his mind to try to see if he can remember who this guy is.

He can't. He draws blanks. No names, no faces, no emotions, _nothing_.

"Who," he starts, stumbling slightly at the muted soreness of his throat, "Who are you?"

His hands fists the sheets anxiously. The man seems to finally snap out of his stupor and sets his face into one of concern and . . . adoration?

"You're awake," he sighs, something of relief. "You're—You're okay, you're safe, don't worry."

The man moves towards the boy, but he stiffens and jerks back, his head hitting the headboard.

Thankfully, he stops in the doorway and holds his hands up innocently as the boy repeats, "Who are you?"

"Quentin," the man—Quentin—says. He takes another step into the room. The boy flinches again, but he continues in until he's sitting at the foot of the bed. His hands clasp together in his lap as he studies the boy cowering away from him. A look of sadness seeps into his blue eyes. "Your husband, babe. You don't remember me?"

_Husband? What the actual hell is going on?_

The boy's fearful eyes stay glued on Quentin. He doesn't . . . he doesn't seem like a bad guy? Like he looks muscular and tall and intimidating, but his face seems to be genuinely sad that he doesn't remember him. For some reason, guilt settles in his stomach.

Despite the guilt, the fear still overpowers every other emotion that rushes through him. "P-Prove it."

Quentin sighs again, scratches his beard, then extends a hand. The boy flinches back slightly but watches. A gold band around the man's ring finger glints in the light from the fixture on the ceiling.

"I don't know how much this proves, but it's my wedding ring? You don't have yours, though." Another wave of sadness shadows his expression. He looks worn down, exhausted both physically and emotionally. "They couldn't find yours."

"They?" he squeaks, trying to piece everything together without having much of anything to go off of.

Quentin nods. "The first responders. We were going to get your ring resized so it fit your finger better, but . . ." He trails off before starting again. "It must've fallen off in the crash. No one could find it." Another pause. Quentin looks away and takes a deep breath. "The doctors said you were mostly fine, just some scraps and bruises, and a mild concussion. They mentioned some amnesia, but I didn't realize you'd forget . . . _everything_."

The boy goes silent. Or, he _thought_ he was a boy. But if he was married to Quentin, then surely he is a man, too. And gay, apparently. Oddly enough, he doesn't really feel like a man or like he's gay. It doesn't . . . it just doesn't feel right.

Head spinning, he asks, "What's my name?"

Quentin's eyes return to him to rake over his face for a few moments. "It's Peter. Peter Beck."

"Peter?" He repeats, trying it out on his tongue. Oddly enough, it feels right. Familiar. Hope surges in his chest. Maybe more things will start to feel familiar, then he'll start to get his memories back. "Where are we?"

"Our house," Quentin supplies. "It's a cozy little cabin in the woods."

"Why am I . . . Why am I not in a, a hospital?" Peter asks, brow furrowing. His head hurts like he has a concussion like Quentin said before, but if he had something as severe as amnesia, surely the doctors would want to monitor him or something?

"You weren't badly injured, so they saw no need to occupy a room that someone else could use. You were discharged last night, then I brought you home," Quentin explains, and he clamps a hand on Peter's ankle. It's probably meant to be a reassuring touch, but Peter jerks out of his grip. He immediately regrets the instinct as hurt flashes across Quentin face.

"Sorry," Peter whispers, his body slowly relaxing slumping. "Sorry, I can't—I can't even imagine . . ."

He can't imagine loving someone so much to marry them and then having them get into an accident to lose their memories of them. That must feel awful.

Quentin gives Peter a watery smile. "I'm just glad you're here and you're okay."

Peter nods. His fingers trace the threading in the blanket in his lap. "Um, h-how old am I? And how old are you? Sorry for asking so many questions." His voice gets quieter as he speaks.

Quentin just pats Peter's ankle. This time, Peter doesn't flinch away. "It's okay, you can ask as many questions as you want, you must be so confused. You're twenty-one, and I'm twenty-eight."

Peter opens his mouth to ask more, but a deep growl from his stomach cuts him off. Cheeks glowing red, he moves his arms to cradle his midsection.

"You must be starving, aren't you?" Quentin muses and Peter nods. "You feel up to eating some soup? It's your grandma's old recipe, you always love it."

None of that rings familiar in Peter's mind, but it's probably just the amnesia. That is the whole point of amnesia, after all: forgetting. He's thankful for the little information about himself, though.

When Peter nods, Quentin smiles. It reaches his eyes this time. "Yeah? I made some earlier—I wasn't sure when you'd wake up—but I'll go heat some up for you." He stands, then pauses to look down at Peter. "Will you be okay by yourself?"

 _No_ , Peter's mind screams. _I'm so confused and lost, don't leave me alone._

Instead of saying any of that out loud, he sheepishly says, "Can I come with you? Would that—would that be okay?"

Quentin grins. "Of course, baby."

He takes Peter's hand and helps guide him to stand. The world tilts and the room goes fuzzy, but then Quentin steadies Peter and he's able to walk out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen.

The cabin is a cozy little home with log walls and warm colors littering the space. The kitchen, which is in the same room as the living room and is separated by a small round dining table in between, is a quant little space with wooden cabinets. Peter carefully slides into a seat at the dining table as Quentin—his _husband_ —moves around the kitchen to grab the pot of cooled soup out of the fridge and over the stovetop.

Peter takes the time to soak in the space. All the windows have the blinds drawn, little slivers of sunlight peaking through the cracks. There's a red rug under Quentin's feet, and there are cute spice containers lining the kitchen counter.

Despite absolutely nothing feeling familiar, the space feels homey. It feels safe.

A hot bowl being set in front of him breaks him out of his thoughts and he looks up at his supposed husband at his side. The man smiles down at Peter and plants a kiss on his forehead.

Peter's cheeks heat up and he immediately shuts down. His eyes stare into the steaming soup. The spot where the man's lips touched his skin is on fire.

A frown pinches Quentin's face. Sliding into the chair opposite of Peter's, he asks, "Baby? What's wrong?"

Peter's eyes flicker up to Quentin's. "I don't . . ." He rubs his face, so so tired and so so confused. Everything is fuzzy and mixed up in his brain. "I don't know. Sorry."

He picks up his spoon and starts to slowly eat the soup. Quentin watches, and Peter shifts, uncomfortable under his close gaze.

Quentin clears his throat when he sees Peter's shifting. "Sorry, I just can't believe how lucky I am that you're here with me."

Peter purses his lips. "Was the accident that bad?"

"It wasn't too bad," he says. "I was just really worried about you." With a soft look in his baby blue eyes, Quentin reaches across the table for Peter's hand. Peter lets the man intertwine their fingers and stares at their hands with no emotion other than guilt for not reciprocating his husband's love. "You're my everything, you know? I love you more than anything in this world."

Peter warily meets Quentin's gaze. "Really?" he whispers, still uneasy and unsure. Which, to be fair, is to be expected considering he just woke up with no memories.

He watches as Quentin raises his hand to his mouth and kisses his hand.

"Cross my heart."

•

Peter hates this. He hates not remembering, he hates feeling lost in his own home, and he hates seeing a stranger when he looks at his husband. His husband, who obviously cares so much and loves him so much. He hates how he doesn't feel a spark or anything when Quentin kisses his forehead or his hand. He hates that he doesn't feel home in his arms when he hugs him. He hates the fog in his head when someone feels faintly familiar, but he can't put his finger on it.

Despite Quentin constantly reassuring Peter that it isn't his fault he can't remember and that he'll eventually learn to love him again, Peter feels immensely guilty.

When he wants to take a shower, Quentin leads him to the bathroom where he pulls out a towel and sets it on the closed toilet lid and then turns the shower on for him. He frets that Peter will faint or lose his balance in the shower and suggests that he help him, but Peter doesn't feel comfortable with that. Quentin jokingly says that he's already seen everything, which makes Peter look away with a fierce blush of embarrassment, and Peter suggests that he takes a bath instead. Still, Quentin worries that Peter will drown and that he needs to help.

Peter doesn't have enough energy to argue, or to really fight the guilt that's eating him up, so he agrees.

Peter asks that Quentin turns around while he strips out of his clothes. Quentin mentions that he's already seen it all again, but turns around anyways.

He turns around while Peter's still stepping into the tub. Peter tries not to feel too embarrassed and uncomfortable— _come on, he's my husband for crying out loud!—_ but he can't bring himself to look Quentin in the eye while he settles in the water.

Quentin squirts a quarter-size of shampoo into his palm as he kneels by the tub and then begins to rub it into Peter's scalp. His back is as straight as a rod, being naked and touched by a complete stranger, but he forces himself to relax and close his eyes. After a while, the fingers twisting in his hair actually begin to feel soothing. He finds himself leaning into Quentin's touch.

"That feel good, baby?"

Peter hums, eyes still closed.

After he's clean, Quentin holds out the towel for Peter to step into. He tries to cover himself when he stands before the towel is wrapped around his body.

Quentin presses a firm kiss to the crown of Peter's head. "I love you so much, Petey."

Peter just smiles.

•

The first night sleeping in Quentin's bed with said man beside him is awkward. Well, it's awkward for Peter, at least. He feels out of place in Quentin's arms as the older man holds him close to his chest. Peter tries to close his eyes and focus on his husband's heartbeat to fall asleep, but his eyes keep popping open every few minutes as if he's expecting something to happen. But what?

He can't relax in Quentin's embrace. Quentin, evidently, doesn't have the same issue. Of course he doesn't, though; he actually remembers his husband. His heavy arms trap Peter against his chest like a cage and it makes Peter feel even more uncomfortable and out of place and suddenly he's feeling claustrophobic but he can breathe he can still breathe _just keep breathing you're okay he's literally your husband calm the fuck down._

_•_

The next day, Peter wakes up to an empty bed like the day before, only this time the savoring aroma of bacon wafts under his nose. He pushes himself out of bed, his feet scampering across the cold floor boards, and pads down the hall to find Quentin standing over a pan of popping and sizzling bacon. A plate of pancakes is set on the table.

Peter quietly slides into his seat at the table and just watches the man cook. He wonders if this is normal, or if the roles are usually reversed and it's just the stupid amnesia's fault everything is out of order.

"How did we meet?" Peter blurts.

Quentin jumps, whipping around as his eyes land on Peter behind him. A hand goes to his heart. "You scared me, babe!" He shakes his head with a breathy chuckle and turns back to the bacon.

Peter smiles sheepishly. "Sorry."

"It's okay." Quentin flips the bacon. "How'd we meet, you asked? Well, we met through a mutual friend. She set us up on a blind date, which I'll never forget because it was the day I met you, and everything just felt right for once in my life."

Frustration builds in Peter's chest. Why can't he just remember?

"Where did we go?"

The majority of the day goes the same: Peter asking Quentin question after question about their relationship. What was the wedding like? Was it a summer, winter, fall, or spring wedding? When did they get married? How long ago was that? How long were they dating before they got engaged? Who popped the question?

Peter asks Quentin while they eat breakfast, while they clean up breakfast, while they do some laundry, and while they sit on the couch and watch a movie. Some stories make Peter laugh, some make him smile, and some make a blush, all of them elicit that guilt Peter's been feeling since the day before. His relationship with Quentin seemed so magical and perfect and _he just wants to remember._

Halfway through a story Quentin's telling, Peter starts to cry. It's slow and silent at first, staring with one tear before his cheeks are soaked and he's blubbering like a baby and then Quentin is holding him and rocking his back and forth and he's rubbing his back and he just doesn't feel like home.

"I'm sorry," Peter repeats for the thousandth time. His voice is croaky and shaky and honestly just a mess. "I'm so sorry I can't remember. I _want_ to remember."

Quentin cups Peter's face in his hands and wipes his tears with his calloused thumbs. "Hey, it's okay, it's not your fault."

Peter shakes his head and pulls away, hugging himself tightly. "You don't deserve this."

"Baby—"

"I'm sorry," Peter sobs out. "I'm a mess and I'm just—"

"No, stop," Quentin says, cutting Peter's self-depreciating words off. "It's not your fault. I still love you."

Eyes glistening, Peter looks up at Quentin with big doe eyes. He can't even comprehend the fact that he has someone who loves him, even though he can't reciprocate the love. It confuses him, just a little, but he's still grateful. So, so grateful and undeserving. "Thank you."


	2. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be mindful of trigger warnings (mostly rape/non-con)

Quentin has to go to work the next day. Apparently he can only get so many days off.

Peter isn't sure how he feels. On one hand, he feels a spike of anxiety shoot through him at the thought of being home alone. On the other, he knows rationally that going to work just has to be done. There's nothing he can do. And, besides, maybe he'll have fun by himself. He'll find something to do, maybe try to remember some things.

Peter wakes up with Quentin at six in the morning and sits with him at breakfast. They're having pancakes and bacon again, the same breakfast as the days before. Peter doesn't mind. They're good. And, besides, if this was what they usually had for breakfast, then maybe it'll help him remember.

As they sit across from each other, eating, Peter hugs his knees to his chest. A yawn stretches his jaw and he covers his mouth with a sweater paw. For some reason, none of Peter's clothes fit right. They're all a few sizes too big, and not really what he would have thought would be his style: plain black and white shirts with gray sweatpants. Even his boxers hang off his hips and are loose around his pale thighs. According to Quentin, they're a bit loose because Peter recently lost weight from the crash. It seems like an excessive amount of weight to lose in such a small window of time, but he tells his skeptical side of his brain to just trust Quentin. It's the least he could do.

"Darling."

Peter's eyes snap up from his half-eaten plate to the man across the table who is already looking at him expectedly. Guilt eats up his insides. Did he say something? He really should pay more attention.

Peter clears his throat. "Sorry, what?"

"I just asked what you plan on doing today while I'm gone. You'll have the house all to yourself for nine hours, after all," Quentin patiently replies.

"Oh, right." Peter pushes the bacon around his plate. The greasiness and fattiness of the meat doesn't seem all that appetizing to him. "I was thinking about just looking around the house some more, you know? To try to get some memories back."

"Don't worry your pretty little head about remembering," Quentin assures, cutting into his pancake and scooping some syrup off his plate with it before bringing it up to his mouth. "The doctors said it could take a while, so don't hurt yourself trying to remember."

"Okay." But why wouldn't Quentin be more encouraging of Peter regaining his memories? He thought the man would want him to remember him as soon as possible. "Well, I was also thinking about maybe stepping outside for some fresh air for the first time since the accident."

Quentin's fork clanks against his plate. Peter jumps a little, his eyes lifting to the man. Something guarded flickers in his blue eyes.

"It's supposed to be chilly and rainy today," he eventually says, voice almost monotone yet somehow remaining casual. "You should probably stay inside. Plus, whenever you go outside, your allergies usually flare up real bad."

Allergies? He didn't realize he had allergies. "Oh . . . well, I'll probably just read, then. I've been wanting to take a look at the bookshelf in the living room."

A smile twitches on Quentin's lips. "Sounds like fun." He nods to Peter's untouched water glass beside him. "Make sure you drink some water, it's important to stay hydrated."

After breakfast and a hug, Quentin leans down to kiss Peter's forehead. Or, at least that's what Peter thinks he's going to do because that's what he's been doing the past two days. Instead, the man plants a kiss on Peter's lips. It takes him by surprise and before he can react, Quentin is pulling away and walking out the door.

When the door shuts behind him and Peter is left in the house, alone, he brings his fingers up to trace his lips.

They've been married for almost a year now and dating for every longer, yet somehow it still feels like the first time he's ever been kissed.

It's not a bad feeling, but Peter can't bring himself to like it, either.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and goes to do what he said he'd do. He wanders around the small cabin, his oversized socks padding quietly against the wood floorboards that freak every few steps. His eyes trail over every little crook and nanny. When he grows frustrated with himself as absolutely nothing strikes him as familiar, he slumps on the couch. He would watch TV, but they don't have cable, only a DVD player to watch movies with. For once in his life, (maybe, he can't remember) Peter wants to watch the news. Living in this little cabin without even peeking out a window is making him feel so isolated from the world.

Is there a war going on? Some celebrity gossip taking the country by storm?

It's driving him mad.

 _Maybe a peek wouldn't matter_ , Peter tells himself, glancing over the couch at a window with the drapes drawn closed. Quentin said it's so the light from outside isn't too bright for Peter's concussion, but honestly, his head doesn't even hurt all that much. It's more of a muffled ache than anything, like an annoying headache that he can't shake.

Surely the natural light won't hurt too much.

_But what if he finds out?_

A chill runs down Peter's spine, but then he blinks.

_Why does that matter? Why am I scared if he finds out?_

Quentin is his husband, Peter shouldn't be scared of him. He has no reason to be. Quentin has been nothing but kind, loving, compassionate, accommodating, and understanding.

_And isolating and slightly guarded, like he's keeping something to himself._

No, he's not. He's . . . He's _nice_. Why can't Peter just _trust_ him already?

Peter doesn't look out the window. He can't betray Quentin's trust like that. Instead, he pushes himself off the couch and steps up to the bookshelf lined with books. He takes one out by random. Brow pulling forward, his finger wipes away a heavy amount of dust.

_"Tell me more about myself, please?"_

_"Of course, princess. You love to read; he'll, you've probably read all the books on that bookshelf!"_

_"Really? That sounds . . . That sounds right."_

And it did sound right. Somehow, Peter felt that he truly did enjoy reading. But if he had read all the books on this shelf, the why is there a thick layer of dust like no one has touched any of these books in years?

Peter tries another book, and it's just as dusty. When he blows the dust off, it flies and tickles his nose until he sneezes.

 _Okay_ , he decides, putting the book back, _I'm definitely cleaning._

_•_

The front door unlocks at five o'clock sharp. Peter perks up from his spot on the couch where he was watching _The Great Gatsby_ (kinda boring in his opinion, but he didn't have anything better to do after deep cleaning the entire cabin) and watches the door open, Quentin stepping inside.

Peter pauses the movie and springs off the couch. When Quentin's eyes fall on Peter, they melt with fondness.

"How was work?" Peter chirps.

Quentin grins as he moves to the refrigerator. He pulls out a beer can and pops it open. It's not the first time he's drank alcohol, but Peter still can't help but feel his stomach do some nervous flips at the sight.

"It was wonderful," he says after a swig. "But I'm glad to be home with you again." He caresses Peter's cheek with a thumb. "Enough about me, how was your day? Have you been lonely?"

Peter smiles. "Not really, actually. I've been, uh, cleaning a lot. Like, dusting and doing the dishes and stuff. It was actually pretty fun."

Quentin smiles, though it seems a bit forced. "That's good, baby. You know, you've always liked cleaning. You found it therapeutic."

Peter stops to think. That sounds . . . that sounds about right. Maybe.

The man closes the fridge and sits down on the couch with a little huff. When he sees the movie paused on the screen, he says, "This is your favorite movie, you know?"

Peter's nose scrunches up as he sits on the opposite end of the couch. "Really? It's kind of boring, though."

Quentin shrugs. "You always liked the book better."

•

The next week passes without so much of a hitch. Peter wakes up with Quentin and eats the pancakes he makes ( _"You don't want the bacon?" "I don't really . . . Like it? I think?" "That's okay, maybe your tastebuds have changed."_ ) and then kisses him goodbye. Well, more like he lets Quentin kiss him goodbye. He still isn't too keen on the kissing, but he'll get there.

He finds that he truly does find cleaning therapeutic. He does the dishes, dusts, does the laundry, and reorganizes the kitchen cupboards. The silence of the cabin starts to get to him, so he sings to himself. He isn't sure what songs they are or who sings them or how he knows them, but it's comforting.

He still hasn't gone outside. Or seen it a window, really. He asks Quentin once if he thinks it'll be okay, but he asks if his head still hurts and Peter (reluctantly) admits there's still an annoying little ache at the back of his head. Quentin decides it's best to keep Peter inside until he gets better.

They take turns making dinner with the groceries Quentin buys. Peter enjoys baking brownies and cookies and muffins more than cooking up a meal, so the house is quickly filled with confections and pastries that Quentin boxes up in tupperware containers to bring back to his coworkers.

Sometimes, at night when they're in bed together, Quentin will reach around Peter's body and brush over his crotch, or he'll press his crotch into Peter's backside. Each time Quentin makes an advance, Peter's mind freaks out and he starts to sweat and he immediately turns around and whispers to Quentin _I'm sorry, but I'm just not ready yet._

He's not ready yet. Why isn't he ready yet? If they've already been intimate (like Quentin has claimed multiple times) then why does Peter feel so anxious and, and dirty whenever it's brought up?

It all boils down to trust, Peter thinks. Even though Quentin has been so _nice_ , he still can't trust him fully. He hates it.

On Saturday night, when Peter tearfully turns Quentin's advances down again, the older man shushes him and says, "Hey, it's okay, we'll take it really slow."

Peter freezes in the darkness. He doesn't want to take it slow, he doesn't want to take it _at all._ He wants—he wants to just sleep. But he also wants to make Quentin happy and to make him feel like he has his husband back. It's not fair to him that he gets denied just because of Peter. That's not fair.

But Peter can't deny the fear that strikes him when he even thinks about having sex with this man.

It's all so confusing still. Peter doesn't feel attracted to Quentin at all. Sure, he's nice and Peter likes him, but he doesn't ever think about being intimate with him. Or any other man, really. It's not that Peter has any bias against gay people, he just doesn't think he is gay? Anymore, at least. If that is even possible.

Is it? Is it possible to be gay then lose your memory and wake up suddenly straight?

He's so confused. All he knows is that Quentin is rubbing him in an area he doesn't want him to and that he can feel pressure in his backside where the man is pressing into him.

Quentin notices the tear that makes its way down Peter's face and stops. Caressing the younger man's face, he coos, "Hey, what's wrong?"

Peter gasps in a breath to try to calm himself down. "I don't—I don't know, I'm just . . . scared."

Quentin turns Peter around and presses their lips together. It just makes Peter feel more trapped and dirty.

"You have no reason to be scared," Quentin whispers, list glinting in his blue eyes. "We've done this so many times before. You love it."

Peter bites down on his lip to keep the tears from pouring down his face. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That I'm like this," Peter says, voice thick. "That you, that you can't be intimate with me without me freaking out and that you have to put up with me."

Quentin shushes Peter by running his thumb over his lips. "You're sorry?"

Peter nods, chin trembling.

Quentin's eyes flicker between Peter's. Then, he says, "Then show me."

Peter frowns and sniffles. "Sh-show you?"

"Show me." Quentin throws he blanket off of them. Immediately, goosebumps arise over Peter's bare arms. The older man makes a show of pressing his obvious tent in his boxers against Peter's front. "You want me to be happy, don't you, darling?"

Peter doesn't know what he's doing. He lets Quentin push him down to be level with the older man's boxers and numbly follows along to his moaned instructions.

It's awful. Peter can't help the steady stream of tears the run down his face while he's got a mouth full. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, and it's disgusting. He can't _breathe_.

But he must be doing something right. Quentin praises him and encourages him in between sharp breaths and broken moans and huffs of air. His fingers tangle themselves in Peter's curly brown locks with a snake-like grip. His scalp burns, but it's not as bad as the pain in his throat.

Peter's eyes shoot wide open when Quentin lets out a loud moan and a hot substance shoots down his throat. He immediately cries out the best he can with his mouth full and tries to push away, but Quentin tightens his grip on Peter's hair and pulls him closer so his nose brushes against pubic hair.

As soon as Quentin lets go, Peter falls back on the bed and throws up. The acidic stomach bile can't mask the putrid taste that resides on his tongue from the unspeakable act he just did.

Quentin lets out a string of curses. He jumps out of bed, pulling on his discarded boxers, while Peter just sits in his vomit and sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Peter cries. "I didn't—I didn't—" He breaks down and can't control his erratic breathing.

"Breathe, Peter!" Quentin shouts, eyes wide in alarm. Peter tries, but then it just causes him to cough and then heave and Quentin jumps back. "Okay, okay, calm down."

"I'm sorry," Peter blubbers, vomit dripping off his bottom lip.

"It's okay, just—" Quentin inhales sharply, then scrunches his face and pinches his nose. "Just get off the bed so I can take the covers off."

Still crying and hyperventilating, Peter stumbles out of bed and stands on his wobbly knees while hugging himself. He watches as Quentin untucks the sheets and bundled them up before carrying them out of the room towards the washer. 

Peter stays frozen in place, crying like a little child. All he can think about is how stupid and _childish_ he's being for reacting like he did.

Quentin returns to find Peter still crying in place. With a sigh, he leads Peter back to the bed, whispering something about getting sleep, but Peter wrestles out of his grip and steps towards the door. Quentin frowns.

"I think—" Peter says around the notch in his throat, "I think I'll go take a shower." Quentin steps forward, but Peter stops him when he adds in a whisper, "Alone."

A brokenness crosses Quentin's features. It's a mix of hurt and disappointment and confusion and Peter hates it, he hates that he caused that.

With one last apology, Peter steps out of the room and hurries into the bathroom. He immediately strips out of his clothes and sits in the tub while the hot water rains over him. He sobs and scratches his arms and wants to scream but bites his lip and cries some more instead.

When he steps out, he's glad for the steamy mirror because he doesn't think he could handle looking at himself. He silently wipes his tears and pulls on his boxers and sweatpants. He leaves the shirt, which has a trail of vomit down the front, and retreats back to the bedroom.

He stops short at the open door. He can hear Quentin's soft snores inside, but he doesn't enter. He can't.

Peter ends up sleeping on the couch.

•

Breakfast is quiet the next morning. Peter's biting his nails down to the cuticles and doesn't touch his plate. Quentin has no problem eating his usual amount of pancakes and bacon.

Peter can't look at the man across from him. He knows that he's probably mad and disappointed because his husband threw up after sucking his dick. That probably doesn't feel too good. Peter's too embarrassed to talk, too. He knows his voice will be weak and his voice will crack and he'll sound like a teenager.

Quentin is the one to break the silence. "Do you feel better?"

Peter's eyes flicker up to his before darting away. "What?"

"Your stomach," Quentin clarifies as patient and loving as ever. "Do you think it was just what we had for dinner last night, or do you feel sick?"

Peter's brow furrows. "I didn't have stomach issues."

"You threw up last night, darling," Quentin says, sympathy written in his eyes. "Do you have a fever, too?"

Shame rushes through Peter like a tidal wave. "N-No. I threw up because, because of . . . because of what we did last night." He looks away, messing with the ends of the sleeves of his shirt that hang over his palms.

Quentin looks thoughtful. "Maybe it was too much excitement for your brain. It's still healing, you know?"

 _That's not it,_ Peter wants to scream. _I wasn't excited, I was terrified and disgusted._

He just takes a sip of his water and nods. "Yeah."

"We'll take it slower," Quentin continues, and Peter still can't face him when they're talking about something as embarrassing as sex. "I'll take a few days off of work to stay with you. We can watch some movies, bake some more treats, and sleep in. How's that sound?"

Peter forces a smile. "Good."

•

The third and last day Quentin stays home from work, Peter is bored and, quite frankly, claustrophobic. He hasn't set foot outside or opened the drapes to look out the window to see the woods that surrounds them. He doesn't know what it smells like out there, what it sounds like, or how it feels to be barefoot in the grass.

He musters up enough courage to ask Quentin while they're cleaning dishes together.

"When can I go outside?" Peter asks, timid. He holds his breath waiting for a response.

Quentin doesn't react. He shrugs, drying off a plate. "You're still healing, babe."

"It's been weeks," Peter continues, accidentally letting his frustration slip.

Quentin turns. His eyes pierce into Peter's. "Healing takes time."

"My head doesn't even hurt anymore." Which isn't a total lie. The distance ache he had been feeling is more of a fogginess that clouds his brain. It makes it hard to think straight sometimes, but it doesn't hurt.

Quentin stiffens. His eyes narrow. "The doctors said—"

"The doctors won't know," Peter pleads. "Please, just a few minutes outside and I'll—"

The plate in Quentin's hand shatters against the counter top. Peter jumps back, eyes wide and heart beating out of his chest.

Unbridled anger flares in Quentin's eyes. "I fucking said no, Peter!"

Silence. You could hear a pin drop.

Peter hides his shaky hands behind him. "O-Okay." He looks away. Slowly continues washing the dishes. "I'm sorry."

Quentin curses and retreats back to their bedroom. The door slams, and Peter startles.

He doesn't bring it up again.

•

Quentin tries to have Peter suck him off again, but Peter starts crying again. He kisses his tears away and asks if he feels left out. Peter frowns, shakes his head, but Quentin doesn't listen and pushes Peter down on the bed as he sinks down to slip off his trousers.

Peter fights his instincts to kick out and instead squeezes his eyes shut as Quentin breathes on his bare legs and spreads his thighs apart.

The night ends with Peter vehemently scrubbing himself in the shower while Quentin sleeps soundly.

•

"Are you gay?" Peter asks one evening during dinner. It's chicken Parmesan with green beans. It's dry and flavorless but Peter can't stomach much of anything anyways with how queasy he always feels.

Quentin chokes on a laugh. "Am I—You do remember what being gay means, right?"

Peter blushes and looks down at his untouched plate. "Yeah, sorry. Stupid."

"It's okay, baby." Quentin watches Peter with amusement. "Why do you ask?"

Peter bites down on his lip. "Because, I don't, um, I don't know . . . Is it possible to just, like, _stop_ being gay? Just randomly one day?"

"I don't think so." Quentin chews slowly, eyeing Peter suspiciously. "Why?"

"No reason."

Quentin hums. He takes another bite of his chicken. "If you're wondering if you're still gay or not, trust me, you are." He chuckles to himself. "Your dick wouldn't have reacted the way it did the other night if you weren't."

That's the thing, though. Peter doesn't feel _horny_ , or _turned_ _on_ , as Quentin has said he feels, when they're in bed together. But he must feel some sort of sexual attraction to the man if his body reacted the way it did. Sure, he didn't necessarily like the touches or advances, but his body sure did. That's what matters, right?

"It's probably the amnesia that's making you confused," Quentin says. "Your brain doesn't remember, but your body does."

•

Peter still cleans whenever Quentin leaves for work. Even if everything is already clean, he cleans it. The toilet is always clean enough to eat off of (though he wouldn't recommend it) and every last book on the book shelf is clear of any and all dust. He starts to make his way through the books, though some of them are rather boring, so he skims through them until the end.

One day while Peter is cleaning the kitchen, about four weeks after waking up with amnesia, he hears a bird. It sounds like it's right outside the window.

He freezes, his eyes darting to the concealed window. His hands subconsciously reach out to pull the drapes back, but he stops himself short, already hearing Quentin's scolding words reverberating around in his eardrums.

But he just wants to see the bird. He hasn't seen one since waking up. He doesn't remember ever seeing one. He doesn't remember being outside or feeling the sun on his skin or rain on his cheeks or wind against his clothes.

Peter checks the time on the microwave. He has about two hours until Quentin gets off of work.

With a deep breath, Peter sets his cleaning supplies aside and walks to the front door. His hand trembles slightly as he reached out for the handle. Once he's got a grip on it, he turns it.

It doesn't budge.

It's locked.

From the _outside_.

Peter stumbles back like he's been burned.

Why would Quentin lock Peter inside?

Peter's head spins.

He's trapped. Quentin is trapping him here and he'll never see the outdoors again and he's going to _die_ in here.

Tugging on his hair, Peter sinks down to the floor and tries to collect his thoughts.

Maybe Quentin is just protecting him. He's just making sure that Peter doesn't go against the doctor's orders and go outside while he's still healing. That's probably it.

But the thing is, Peter feels fine. There's still a vague fuzziness in his head, but it's probably just the amnesia. He has no pain, no bruises, no scratches, _nothing_.

He's perfectly fine. So, he decides it's okay to go outside.

Peter saunters back up to the door and tries to open it again, knowing fully well that it's still locked. He moves to a window. Pulling back a drape, sunlight pours into the room and nearly blinds Peter for a few seconds. At first he panics because _holy shit is he going to be blind now just because he didn't listen to Quentin?_

After blinking a few times, his vision restores completely. He takes a peek outside.

Vibrant green trees scrapes against a crystal blue sky with white cotton candy clouds. A blue jay sweeps past chirping away, and a little squirrel scampers up a tree.

It's . . . beautiful.

Peter hurries to trace his hands along the edges of the window to find a lock. Once he finds it, he unlocks it and pushes it open. He immediately sticks his head out and inhales.

It smells so _fresh_.

A toothy smile breaks out across his face.

He doesn't hesitate to pull himself up on the window sill and push himself out.

His bare feet hit the grass with a small thump. He wiggles his toes as the blades of grass snakes between his toes and tickles the bottoms of his feet. Whoever decided to call them "blades" of grass was so wrong to compare this soft plant to a sharp edge.

Faintly, he can hear a distant woodpecker knocking against a tree. It's a hollow-y sound that echoes across the woods.

An elated laugh bubbles up Peter's throat as tears sting behind his eyes.


	3. Conflicting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings still in full-swing

When Quentin comes home, Peter schools his expression to be casual. He sends him a glance over the couch after tearing his eyes from the movie playing on the TV.

"Hey darling," Quentin greets.

"Hey." Peter looks back to the movie. "How was work?"

There's silence. Fear stirs in Peter's stomach. Pausing the movie, he looks back at Quentin.

"Quentin?"

He's standing still, spine as straight as a rod, his eyes locked at the floor in front of the window. With baited breath, Peter follows his eyes. His eyes widen and he holds back a gasp.

There's dirt on the floor.

Quentin's eyes slowly, dangerously shift to Peter's. "How did that get there?"

The way he says it sends chills down his spine.

"I—I don't know." _Act cool._

"Don't you clean the house while I'm gone?"

Peter nods. "Must've missed a spot."

Quentin nods. "Must've. Yeah." He joins Peter on the couch. Both are still tense.

Peter lets out a small squeak when Quentin grabs his ankle and yanks his foot up to his face. His eyes burn with anger at the sight of the dirt smeared on the bottom of his foot.

Peter's heart sinks like a bag of bricks.

"Did you go outside?" Quentin's voice is low and dangerous.

Peter gulps. Stares back at him with wide eyes.

His silence answers for him.

He doesn't even see Quentin's fist flying towards him until pain flares under his eye and he's falling back against the couch.

Quentin catches Peter's bicep in a bone-crushing grip and wrenches him off the couch. Peter's still blinking away the stars that the punch elicited as he's dragged to the ground.

"I'm sorry!" he squeaks, covering his head with his arm not being crushed by Quentin's meaty hand. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to—"

Quentin throws him to the floor harshly. Peter's elbow smacks against the floor and he cradles it against against his chest as he cries.

"I fucking told you not to go outside!" Quentin shouts, spit flying. He gesticulates widely. "You're still healing! You can't go outside!"

"Okay!" Peter sobs. "I'm sorry, I won't go outside again, I promise. Please."

Quentin, chest rapidly rising and falling, looks away. At first Peter thinks he's going to let it go, but then his boot pulls back before it's landing a harsh kick into Peter's ribs.

He cries out and crumples against the floor as the wind is knocked out of him.

"I don't like hurting you," Quentin says, suddenly hovering over Peter's shaking body as he cradles him. Peter flinches back from his touch but Quentin ignores it. "You needed to learn your lesson so you don't do it again."

"I won't," Peter promises through a wheeze. "I won't go outside again. I'm sorry."

Lips press against his forehead. "Good."

•

Peter hates his reflection.

The hickeys and bruises litter his skin like burn marks. He wants to scratch them off. And his body, his face, everything about him looks so young. He doesn't feel or look like a twenty-one-year-old. He looks like a high school student, not a grown man with a husband who is a few years from turning thirty.

Peter hates it.

•

Quentin pampers Peter. He calls him princess, which makes his stomach churn, but Quentin likes it.

Peter curls up on his side of the bed every night as far away from Quentin as possible, but the man always pulls him close to his chest and keeps him trapped in his arms all night.

Peter stops getting up when Quentin does. He sleeps in and doesn't move until after Quentin presses a kiss against his lips before he leaves for work.

Ever since he stepped outside, Peter's been craving being outside even more. The feeling of the sun against his skin was euphoric and the grass under his feet was like a massage. Not to mention the vastness of the outdoors. The woods didn't seem to end.

Pacing around the same six hundred square feet of the cabin, Peter feels more trapped than ever.

He reads books about the outdoors and about adventures and throws himself into the place of the protagonist. He watches movies with large spaces and gets up close to the TV and pretends like he's there.

Quentin mentions something about how Peter's losing weight again later that night. Peter just shrugs and says he isn't hungry. Quentin looks sad and asks if Peter thinks he's ugly. Peter shakes his head. Quentin says that he's perfect and beautiful.

"Let me show you how beautiful you are," he whispers.

Peter shakes his head, but it was a promise, not a suggestion.

Quentin doesn't go down on Peter like he thought he would. He still strips him naked and touches him, but then Peter feels a pressure against his hole and he squirms away.

Quentin holds his hips still and hushes him with loving words of encouragement. He ignores the tears on Peter's cheeks and the soft "stop" and "don't" and "no" on his lips.

Peter closes his eyes and eventually just lets Quentin do what he wants. He's his husband, after all. He's put up with Peter for weeks and weeks. He deserves this.

After everything is said and done and Quentin is panting and they're both covered in a thin layer of sweat and Peter's in _pain_ and not even turned on in the slightest, Quentin falls asleep.

Peter limps to the bathroom and showers. He doesn't cry this time. Instead, he just numbly watches his blood roll down his legs and run down the drain.

•

Quentin is so nice. He's all kisses and gentle touches and "how are you"s and reassurances. He holds Peter when he randomly cries during dinner and he tells him that he needs to eat more and he looks genuinely upset every morning he leaves for work. He plays Peter's favorite movie (even though Peter still thinks it's boring) and he helps him when he throws up and he tells him he loves him.

He's so _nice_.

Until he isn't.

Then he's all bites and punches and "shut up"s and insults. He shoves Peter to the ground when he asks a question he doesn't like and he makes crude comments about his body and looks so angry when Peter says the wrong thing. He makes Peter sit on his lap while they watch movies and makes him throw up when he makes him suck him off and tells him he's lucky that he's even putting up with him.

Today is one of the nice days.

Quentin is making pancakes and bacon and singing a song Peter recognizes. Peter starts to sing along under his breath, and when the older man turns around and catches him, a grin spreads across his face.

Peter blushes and stops. Quentin leans against the table and brushes the curly locks out of Peter's face. "Don't stop, babe. You sound great."

So Peter sings along with Quentin. They both end up laughing and smiling and it's a good morning.

•

Peter makes dinner that night. It's a simple dish: spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread. He makes it all by himself, though, and surprises Quentin when he comes back from work.

Peter manages to eat half of his plate. Quentin smiles and kisses him and tells him that he's doing so good before reminding him to drink his water to stay hydrated. Peter rolls his eyes but obeys.

Quentin is almost done with his second serving when Peter stands and excuses himself to the bathroom. While he washes his hands, he looks up at his reflection. His lingering smile falters. The bruises around his throat from the night before being back uncomfortable memories. Quentin was . . . rougher than usual. Peter almost passed out. He dries his hands then trails a gossamer finger along the hand-shaped bruise.

A crash from the kitchen has him jumping back and nearly stumbling over his two feet. He stares wide-eyes at the closed bathroom door as voices shout.

"Where the _fuck_ is he, Beck?"

"What the hell?! Get out of my house!"

"We know you took him, so you better tell us what you did to him and where he is before we rip this whole place apart, starting with you.”

Peter's heart is in his throat. He's pulled out of his shock and fear when he hears Quentin let out a pained cry.

He carefully opens the door and creeps down the hall to the kitchen. Poking his head around the wall, he spots two figures other than Quentin. They're both in large, chunky metal suits. One is red and gold, the other more silver and navy. The red and gold one has Quentin pinned to the ground with a glowing palm aimed right at his head.

The floorboard creaks under Peter's weight. All three heads snaps towards the hall as Peter gasps and ducks behind the wall.

But they saw him. They definitely saw him.

"Peter!"

They . . . know his name?

"No!" Quentin shouts. "Peter, run!" There's a thump, then Quentin goes quiet.

Peter can't move—his feet are frozen in place—as he hears footfalls fast approaching.

The red and gold suit scares the shit out of him as it enters the hall. Peter lets out a shriek and falls back, his head hitting the wall.

The suit opens up and reveals a middle-aged man as he steps out. He's got a well-trimmed goatee and dark eyes. Peter scrambles back, his back slamming into the wall, and stares up at the man with fear-blown eyes.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," the man placates, his face wrinkled in worry. He gives Peter a once-over. "You're okay, kid. It's just me and Rhodey."

_Kid. Rhodey._

Peter groans and holds his head in his hands, teeth clenching.

A hand on his knee has Peter jerking his head back against the wall in fear as he attempts to press further away from the man.

He holds up his hands and backs up. "Not gonna hurt you, it's just me, Tony. Mr. Stark."

_Tony. Mr. Stark._

Peter's brain feels like scrambled eggs.

"I-I don't—" Peter glances back at the other metal suit hovering in the doorway to the hall. His eyes return to the man—Tony—kneeling a good distance away from him. He's watching Peter with concern and doesn't look like he wants to hurt him. Who is he? What's going on? Why'd they hurt Quentin? "How do you know my name?"

Confusion flickers across Tony's face, then fear. "Because you're my pain in the ass, kiddo. Remember?"

Peter looks away, still trying to calm his heart rate down. "Why'd you hurt him?"

There's a beat of silence. The man hovering behind—Rhodey, Tony called him—opens up his faceplate. "Who, Beck?"

Peter forces him to look at the guy talking, but his eyes keep darting to the floor.

"Pete," Tony says, drawing Peter's attention back to him, "You do realize he kidnapped you, right?"

Fear grips his heart. "W-What?"

The same fear seems to wash over Tony. A sense of urgency slips into his voice. "Quentin Beck, Classic super villain, kidnapped you and held you captive for almost two months. Ringing any bells?"

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and tugs at his hair. "I don't understand." His voice comes out broken, pleading. "I can't—" His head throbs, cutting him off short.

Tony sends a look over his shoulder at Rhodey. "Handle Beck, I've got the kid."

"Why are you calling me that?" Peter whimpers, still holding his throbbing head.

Tony disregards Peter question and instead asks, "Are you injured?"

"What's going on?"

"Peter, look at me," Tony begs, but Peter just shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "What's wrong? Talk to me, bud."

"Is Quentin okay?"

Tony freezes. Peter's heart jumps into his throat and he asks, completely panicked, "Is he dead?!"

"Not dead, he's not dead," Tony assures, brow furrowed. "He's going to be fine, okay? We just need to get you to the medbay and check you out, Banner and Cho are already getting it all set up for your arrival."

Peter looks up at Tony through red, glistening eyes. "I'm so _confused_."

Tony smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. His voice is thick when he says, "It's okay, you're coming home."


	4. Confusion

Peter is still confused.

He's confused when Tony leads him outside while keeping his respectful distance, though he keeps his eyes studying Peter the whole time and acting like he's ready to spring forward and catch him if he suddenly collapsed.

He's confused when Tony mutters something to Rhodey about his pupils being dilated like he is on drugs. Peter doesn't do drugs, and Quinten doesn't, either. He doesn't even know if he's ever been high before.

He's confused when Tony leads him into a sleek black car and the driver looks back at him like his puppy was just ran over. Peter looks away and doesn't move to get into the car until Tony reassures him that they're just taking him to someone named Banner and someone named Cho to get looked at to make sure he's okay. Peter doesn't know who they are, and Tony and the driver look sad, so he hesitantly gets into the back of the car. He's thankful that Tony gets into the passenger seat instead of the back with him.

Peter's confused when the driver calls him Spider-Man.

"Who?"

"Spider-Man."

"I'm sorry, I don't . . . I don't know what you're talking about."

Peter's used to being in a constant state of confusion and his head still hurts and he's tired, so he leans his head against the window, closes his eyes, and drifts.

He stirs awake at the sound of Tony and the driver's voice.

"Is he sleeping?" the driver asks in a whisper.

There's a shuffle. Then, Tony whispers back, "Yeah."

Silence.

"Is it brainwashing or something?" the driver asks.

"I'm thinking more along the lines of memory loss."

"Shit. That's not any better, is it?"

"Don't think so, Hap," Tony sighs. "He was concerned for Beck. Asked if he was okay, why we hurt him."

"He probably manipulated him."

"I know. I just . . ."

"It's not your fault, Tony."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Hap, but I should've been here sooner. I can't even imagine what that creep did to him in two and a half months. He'll, I don't think I want to know."

There's a few minutes of silence. Peter starts to fall asleep again, but then the driver's voice pulls him back.

"He's strong. He'll get through this."

Tony sniffs. "Yeah."

"Have you called May yet?"

"Shit."

Peter can't hold out for any longer and falls under sleep's spell once more.

This time, he's woken up by a steady beeping. It's the first thing he registers as he emerges from the fog. At first he thinks it's Quinten's alarm clock, then the events from the last few hours flood in and his eyes snap open and he bolts upright.

"Woah, it's okay, buddy," someone to his right says. "Take it easy."

Peter blinks and takes stock of his surroundings. Tony's sitting in a chair to his right with bags under his eyes and a calculating look in his eyes. There's no one else in the room. Peter frowns as he notices they're in what looks like a teenager's bedroom with posters and piles of books. Looking down at himself, he finds that he's dressed in a hospital gown on a bed with dark blue sheets with an IV stuck in his hand. He follows the line up to a gurney.

"Just fluids to help you out with the withdrawal," Tony says, as if that clears everything up.

Disoriented, Peter looks over at Tony and repeats, "Withdrawal?"

Tony purses his lips. Sighs. "Right, you don't . . ." He runs a hand through his dark hair speckled with grays. "How're you feeling?"

"Confused." Peter looks around. "Where am I?"

"Your room at the compound," Tony supplies. "The, uh, Avengers compound."

Peter cocks his head. "Avengers?"

Tony pauses. Shakes his head. "Nothing, I'll fill you in later, doc said not to overwhelm you."

Peter frowns. "Why aren't we in a hospital?"

"Privacy reasons," Tony replies vaguely. "This is also where the best doctors in the world are, too."

Peter nods, though he's still skeptical. He looks around the room again before asking, "Where's Quinten?"

Tony freezes. He visibly struggles as his mouth hangs open, looking for the right wording. Rubbing his hands together, he eventually just says, "Prison."

Peter's stomach churns. It doesn't make him feel good, but it isn't a bad feeling that rises in his gut. "Why?"

"Because he kidnapped you," Tony says, his eyes flickering between Peter's to gauge his reaction. "We also think he took some of your memories. Is that right?"

Peter looks away. As much as he doesn't want to believe that the last few months were all a lie, that he's been sleeping with a manipulator, that he doesn't have the slightest clue as to what is real and what is fake, it makes so much sense.

He desperately wants to keep the tears at bay, but the reality of everything crashing over him is too much. He bites down on his lip to keep his sobs in while the tears flood down his face. Voice thick, he says, "He took all of them."

Peter sniffs and looks up to meet Tony's eyes, which are filled with so much concern and sadness that it twists Peter's stomach.

"Please tell me what's real, I—I can't take it."

Tony leans forward in his seat. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Whatever you need."

Peter wipes his tears away with the back of his hand without the IV stuck in it. "Who am I?"

"Peter Benjamin Parker," Tony immediately answers.

"How old am I?"

"Sixteen."

Peter's heart sinks into his stomach. Sixteen? He's literally a teenager, a kid. He's underage for everything except driving. And yet Quentin . . . used him. He used him and made him think it was okay and that they were a happily married couple. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Tony's eyes blow wide. He lunges for a wastebasket by the door and extends it to Peter just as the boy—the _boy_ , not man—heaves and throws up stomach bile.

As soon as he's done throwing up, Peter pushes the trash can away and breathlessly asks, "Who are you?"

A line forms between Tony's brows. "We can slow down, take it easy, okay?"

"Please," Peter begs, staring up at Tony.

Tony caves. He sighs and sets the trash bin aside. "I'm Tony, but you usually call me Mr. Stark."

"Why?" Peter asks. "Are you, like, a teacher or something?"

Tony smiles fondly. "No, you're just too stubborn and too damn polite to call my by my first name."

Peter nods for Tony to go on.

"I'm kinda your mentor, too. I basically co-parent you alongside your aunt." Tony looks down at an expensive watch on his wrist. "Speaking of who, she should be here soon. It takes a while to drive up from Queens. That's where you're from, by the way."

"Why do you and my aunt co-parent me? What about my parents?" Peter asks, confused, but the look on Tony's face clears it all up. "They're dead, aren't they?"

"Afraid so."

Peter hums. That doesn't sting as much as he thought it would. "So you're my uncle?"

"I'm actually not related to you at all, kiddo," Tony explains, crossing his arms and sitting back. "More of a mentor, like I said before."

"Oh." Peter's silent. His eyes dart back to the IV in his hand, and he says, "You mentioned withdrawal earlier?"

Tony's mood visibly drops. "Yeah. Beck, he, uh, was drugging you like everyday. Probably through water or something. It's what caused your amnesia and took your abilities."

Peter frowns. "Abilities?"

"I'll explain later." Tony waves it off dismissively.

"Okay," Peter drawls. His eyes scan the room for the umpteenth time. "What's my favorite movie?"

The other man lets out a small laugh. "One of those nerdy Star Wars movies."

Somehow, that's the only confirmation Peter needs to trust Tony.

•

Peter's reunion with Aunt May is emotional for both parties. As soon as she steps through his bedroom door, the waterworks start on her face and she runs to Peter's side and plants kisses all over his face and hugs him while Tony advises that she gives Peter some space, unsure of how the boy would react.

May immediately pulls back, her eyes going straight to Peter's, and Peter starts to cry, too. He doesn't remember this Italian woman with long brown locks and more stress likes than she should have at her age, but something deep inside of him tugs at his heart at the sight of her.

May takes it as a sign to hug him again, but the feeling of even finding her familiar freaks him out and he pushes her away.

"Honey," she says, "Do you remember me?"

"I don't remember anyone," Peter whispers through his tears. May's face falls. "I can't—I don't—" He looks to Tony for help.

"He's overwhelmed, May," Tony pitches in and guides her out of Peter's personal space. "It's all a lot for him, right, Underoos?"

It takes Peter a few seconds for him to realize Tony was referring to him. He nods. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," May firmly states matter-of-factly. "Nothing at all."

Peter looks at his sweaty fingers in his lap and nods. He knows this woman, he knows he does, but he doesn't even know anything about her. He doesn't know. "When will I get my memories back?"

"Just a matter of time," Tony assures him. "You're still going through withdrawal, still going through a fever and all that. Banner should be back soon to give us a rundown and timeline."

Peter nods again. He spares a glance at the woman standing beside Tony and whispers, "I'm sorry I can't remember you."

May looks like she wants to argue, but when Tony sets a hand on her shoulder, she takes a breath. "It's okay, honey."

Like Tony said, Banner—whose name is actually Bruce Banner—stops by within the next few minutes with a clipboard. He's a somewhat short man with short, curly dark hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He wraps the whole doctor thing up with a white lab coat.

May sits in the chair Tony was seated in earlier and Tony remains standing behind her, leaning one shoulder into the wall.

"It's nice to see you, Peter," Bruce greets. Peter just nods. "How are you feeling? Queasy, dizzy, migraine?"

"I'm fine."

None of the three adults believe it, but they allow it and Peter's thankful for that.

"I'm sure Tony has filled you in on your state?" Bruce assumes. Peter nods again. "Good. I'll just reiterate some of that, if you don't mind. You're going through withdrawal from a memory-loss drug that you've been repeatedly administered through food or water. Given that it has stunted your metabolism, it has been taking quite a while to work it's way through your system. It's starting to metabolize faster, now, since some of your metabolism has been restored, so you should start to remember within a few hours."

Peter just nods. He doesn't know how to feel, though he is beyond ready to remember something. He can't handle being in the dark any longer.

"I also got a look at your physical injuries," Bruce continues. Peter tenses. "The strangulation bruise on your neck is starting to heal slowly but surely. You've also got a good bump at the back of your head that's not really healing like it should, as are the other sparse bruises I've noticed, but once this drug is completely out of your system, they'll heal in no time."

Peter doesn't let his surprise show. Bruce didn't . . . He didn't mention anything about the suspicious bruises and bite marks on his thighs and hips? Relief floods through Peter. He must not have seen them. Good.

That's one thing Peter wants to keep to himself.

•

Peter jolts awake. His whole body is covered in sweat, and it's like his flesh is burning. He quickly whips the covers off of his sticky skin and swings his legs over the side of the bed, but when he tries to stand his knees wobble and he collapses to the floor. He curls up on the ground in a ball, body shivering despite the fire burning under his skin. His pajama pants and sweatshirt encase his body like an oven.

In the darkness, a shadow in the corner of the room fools Peter into thinking it's Quinten. He lets out a whimper and hides his face in his arms, squeezing his eyes shut, willing him to just go away.

He can feel the walls caving in on him, constructing his lungs and taking away his air. Heaving for breath, Peter pushes himself onto his hands and then to his feet. He hastily opens the door and nearly cries when it opens, unlike the door at the cabin that was always locked on the inside.

The light in the hallway burns his pupils and he blinks to get the dots out of his eyes as he stumbles down the hall aimlessly.

He wants Tony. Tony would know what to do. He has helped Peter come down from a panic attack before, he's done it at least three times—wait.

Peter stop breathing.

Tony has helped him with panic attacks before.

How . . . How does he know that?

"Peter?"

Peter spins around, catching himself on the wall. May stands there, wearing fuzzy pajama pants and a thin gray t-shirt. She watches Peter carefully, cautiously taking a step forward.

"You okay, honey?"

Peter presses his head against the wall. Between erratic breaths, he says, "I think I remember something."

Elation widen May's eyes. "That's great! What do you remember?"

"Tony, he used to . . ." Peter shakes his head and closes his eyes to focus. "He used to help me with panic attacks." Pauses. "Right?"

May nods, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "Yeah, that's right, honey." She studies his sweat-soaked figure. "Fever wake you up?"

Peter nods, though he isn't really sure if that's what jolted him awake. He can't remember having any dreams of that's what woke him.

May smiles sympathetically. "I'll go grab you a glass of water and some medicine, that sound okay?"

He nods again. Then, before she can walk out of earshot, he calls after her, "Thank you."

Her small smile grows, but it's still depressingly sad. "You're welcome, honey."

•

Peter doesn't go to sleep after that. As soon as he remembers that little information, more start to trickle in. He lies in bed with the light on and stares at the ceiling as he mind occasionally bombards him with little details he hadn't remembered for months.

The second thing he remembers is Ned Leeds. He remembers his smile, his jokes, their handshake, and building countless LEGO sets together.

The third thing he remembers is that he missed the Homecoming dance. He can't remember last year's yet, but he has a feeling it didn't go so well and he was planning on making this one special.

The fourth thing he remembers is Spider-Man. At first Peter's surprised and confused, because he's a superhero, what the hell, but then he remembers fighting alongside Iron Man against Captain America in Berlin and—hey, he stole Captain America's shield. Badass.

Then comes in memories of May. Failed dinners, heart-to-hearts, tears for Uncle Ben, useless tears over some girl named Liz. That leads Peter into remembering Liz, and then last year's Homecoming, then Toomes and everything with that and then Tony giving him a shot at being an Avenger but Peter turning it down.

He remembers a mission he was on during a patrol. It wasn't an official mission, of course, it was just him following a loose lead he found. He was perched outside a warehouse, and then his spider-senses shot shivers down his spine and he turned just in time to dodge a syringe aimed towards his neck. At the time he didn't recognize him—he was just some dude with a beard—but Peter now knows his identity as Quentin Beck. Peter got a few good punches in and then noticed that Beck had distracted him from the lead he was chasing. The guys he was stacking out had already left, and Peter started to go after them, but that's when Beck got up and stabbed Peter with the syringe. It must've been strong enough to knock him out long enough to lug him into that cabin in the woods. Peter isn't sure why the guy wanted him, or why he wanted to play pretend husbands in a sick domestic setting, but he doesn't force himself to think about it for too long.

By the time the sun comes up (he can actually see it through his window, which will never be covered ever again), he pretty much remembers everything.

He just wishes he couldn't remember the last few months.

Before anyone can knock on his door or bombard him about breakfast, Peter makes his way to his en-suite bathroom to take a shower. He rinses the sweat from the fever down the drain. If he scrubs a little excessively over his hips and thighs were the—thankfully fading—bruises are, no one has to know. In fact, no one ever has to know they are there in the first place.

Yes, Peter remembers how close he was with May and Tony and even Happy, but he doesn't want to let them in on this secret. He can't let them know. They'd think he was . . . dirty, or something.

Beck called Peter a slut often. He'd say that Peter used to be such a slut and a whore and always wanted to have sex with him and how Peter was being weird for denying it. He knows now that it wasn't true, none of it ever was, but it still hurts and it still makes him feel like a disgusting human being. Especially since he gave in to Quentin and let the man use Peter like a puppet.

Peter gets a good look at himself in the mirror after the shower. He wipes away the steam and feels disgust swirl in his stomach at the sight of himself. His neck bruise is almost completely faded, he observes, tilting his head this way and that to get a good look.

Knowing now that he's sixteen and not twenty-one, Peter feels so stupid. He's clearly a teenager. How had he looked at himself in the mirror and actually believed he was an adult? How was he so gullible?

"Boss would like you to know that breakfast is waiting for you whenever you're ready."

Peter startles, then rolls his eyes at himself for forgetting about Friday.

A shot of nerves shooting through him, Peter asks, "Um, what did they make?"

"Boss has his kitchen staff prepare eggs, bacon, and pancakes."

Peter inhales sharply but nods. "Okay. Okay. Thanks."

He runs his towel through his wet curls and promptly gets dressed into a hoodie and sweatpants. At first they feel too tight, but then he remembers that he's used to loose-fitted clothing. Bile rises in his throat at the realization that he's been wearing Beck's clothes the entire time.

After forcing a smile on his face, Peter makes his way out of his room and down the hall to the kitchen. Like Friday said, there are plates of scrambled eggs, stacks of pancakes, and platters of bacon.

Tony and May, both dressed for the day, are seated at the table. May notices Peter's presence and sends him a smile. Tony turns and finds Peter hovering in the doorway.

"Good morning," May calls. "I was just telling Tony how you remembered something last night."

Tony takes a sip of his coffee before asking, "Happen to remember anything else?"

Peter nods, nervously threading his fingers together in front of him. "Um, yeah, actually. I think I remember everything now."

Their faces light up.

"Really?" Tony asks. "Well, I'll be damned."

May lightly smacks his arm. "Language." She turns to Peter, ignoring Tony's eye roll. "That's amazing, sweetheart. Grab a plate and pile the food on high, it's all delicious. The pancakes are really light and fluffy."

Peter gives her a strained smile. "Okay." He does as she says and grabs a plate and fork. He stays clear of the pancakes and bacon and instead just puts some scrambled eggs on his plate before sitting at the table with the two.

May frowns at his plate while Tony remarks, "Don't feel like pancakes or bacon this morning?"

Peter avoids their gazes. "I, uh, guess not." He eats his eggs in silence, not missing the looks being exchanged between the two adults sitting by him.

"Well if you're not going to eat anything else, you should pile up on the eggs a bit," Tony says pointedly. "That's not enough to satisfy your metabolism."

Peter pauses.

They're acting like he's normal now? Because he can remember? That does make some sense, considering he actually knows who they are and where he is now. But he doesn't feel like Peter anymore. He doesn't feel the same. Just because he remembers doesn't mean he's suddenly okay.

He isn't sure if May and Tony's attitude makes him happy or not. Either way, he's relieved they aren't so worried about him anymore or looking at him like he's made of glass. Yeah, he feels like he's made of glass, but they aren't so worried.

Maybe he could just pretend that nothing even happened. Maybe he can pretend like he's the same Peter now.

"You okay, sweetheart?" May's voice brings Peter back to reality.

He realizes he's been too quiet to be normal Peter. Plastering a bright smile on his face, he says, "Yeah, I'm just, like, really glad to be back." Despite the queasiness in his stomach, he takes a big bite of his eggs.

Tony and May look relieved, though, so that's all that matters.


	5. Pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning rape/non-con

Peter crashes into his bed face-first. Playing pretend is probably the most exhausting thing he's ever done.

It's been three days since he's been back. Three days since he left that cabin. Two full days since he got his memories back.

The past three days have been nothing short of tiring. Peter's constantly keeping himself in check to make sure he is selling the whole "okay" thing. He smiles, tries to crack some jokes, and eats. Nobody knows that he always feels sick after eating and throws up in his bathroom after meals, but that's something else he'll just keep to himself.

Yesterday, Tony tried to sit him down and talk about what happened. You know, while he's been gone. Peter just smiles and tells Tony that he's okay, Beck didn't tough him up too bad. That makes Tony skeptical, though, and Peter tries again after toning down the perkiness. He lets himself look a bit sad, a bit nervous, and admits that he was scared and stuff but Beck seriously didn't hurt him too much.

Earlier today, May sat in Peter's room and caught him up on everything he missed while being gone. Apparently Ned's been calling like crazy because he got a new LEGO set he wanted to build with Peter. Also, the new Star Wars movie was released. May tells Peter this with so much excitement that he forces himself to be excited, too, even though he forgot all about the movie he had been looking forward to.

Peter accidentally slips up when May asks what he was going to do now. He shrugged and said, "I'm definitely not going to watch _The Great Gatsby_." He laughed. May did too, a little, though she looked confused and asked, "What do you mean?"

And, well, Peter froze. His stumbles over his words and then May took his shaking hands and asked if he wanted to talk or if he was having a panic attack but Peter just took his hands out of her grasp and smiled and said, "I just don't like that movie. It's, like, super boring."

May left it at that. She didn't ask about his time while he was gone again.

The way May and Tony only phrase it as Peter being "gone" makes it all seem so . . . trivial. Like Peter was just on a vacation or something, not being held hostage with no memories and being manipulated into thinking he was a grown man married to his captor so they could be domestic and have sex and be cuddly and—

Peter sits up in his bed and presses his head between his knees, his legs up against his chest. His fingers tangle themselves in his hair and he pulls to make the pain erase his train of thought.

No more thinking of Beck.

It happened, it's done, it's time to move on.

Keeping himself together only lasts so long. As soon as he's back in his room away from prying eyes, he usually starts to have a panic attack or just cries.

Today, Peter just curls up in his bed and goes to sleep, too exhausted to do anything else. He isn't even sure what time it is. He just wants to rest.

Apparently, his mind has different ideas.

•

_"Hey baby."_

_Peter's head whips around. He's sitting on the couch, and with a jolt he realizes he's in the cabin._

_No. Not again. Not again,_ please _._

_A hand lands on his thigh. Peter can't move. Can't breathe._

_Quinten's sitting beside him. His eyes are alight with list and his lips are curled in an evil smile. Everything is slanted slightly, and all the warm colors of the cabin are cold._

_The hand on his thigh moves to his crotch. Peter physically can't move, he's stuck in his body, watching what Quinten is doing._

_His hand continues to rub his crotch, and to his horror, Peter hears himself moan and watches himself get hard._

_"Mmm, Quinten."_

_"Feel good, baby?"_

_"Oh yeah."_

_There's a blur of grays as everything mixes together, and then suddenly Peter's watching himself ride Quinten in the first person. He can't tear his eyes from the sight and he can't move he can't scream he can't do anything._

_He's helpless._

_Peter can't tune out the dirty words the fall from both Quinten's lips and his own. He watches as he finishes, and then watches as he climbs off of Quinten and lowers himself with his mouth wide open and—_

_•_

Peter stumbles out of his bedsheets as soon as his eyes snap open and bolts to his en-suite to empty his stomach into the toilet.

As soon as he's emptied everything out and he's done dry-heaving, he pushes himself up to his feet, flushed the toilet, and leans into the vanity where he reaches for his toothbrush. He almost knocks it before he grabs it and, after some mild fumbling from his shaky hands, squirts a mountain of toothpaste on the bristles.

He brushes his teeth vehemently, not stopping or slowing even when he can taste the blood mixing in with the foam overflowing in his mouth as it drops down his chin.

He spits it all out, then squeezes more toothpaste on the toothbrush to brush the hell out of his mouth again. No matter how hard he brushes, he can still _taste_ _it_.

 _"You are showing signs of distress,"_ Friday's unhelpful voice chimes. " _Would you like me to contact—"_

"No!" Peter shouts, pausing his actions. "Don't contact _anyone_. I'm—" He takes a deep breath. "I'm fine."

When Friday doesn't speak again, Peter sighs in relief and then continues brushing his teeth like a psychopath.

He eventually stops when all his gums are bleeding and he can't feel his tongue anymore. He asks Friday what time it is, and after hearing that it's midnight, he realizes that he slept through dinner. He's surprised May or Tony didn't wake him up for that.

Still exhausted, Peter retreats to his bedroom and turns on the lights before lying down in bed again. He doesn't close his eyes to fall asleep; instead, he stares at the ceiling and thinks about anything other than _him_.

He tries to think about school. It's still summer break, but it ends in a week. Neither May or Tony have brought it up, but Peter wants to go. He needs to go. He can't laze around the compound or May's apartment all day feeling sorry for himself. Plus, he'll see Ned, and his friend always makes him feel better. He'll forget all about Beck and his _hands hands hands hands hands hands—_

He sits up and presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until he sees an explosion of color behind his lids.

"Stop," he whispers to himself, pressing harder against his eyes.

_"You feel so good, baby."_

"Stop."

_"Look at you, all excited for me."_

"Stop."

_"Hmmmm, that feel good, darling?"_

"Stop."

_"Such a good boy."_

"Stop!"

With a shout, Peter leans forward then brings his head backs against the headboard behind him _hard_.

His head feels jarred, like he just took a hammer to his head, and he realizes that he probably shouldn't have done that with his super strength. It hurt like a bitch and it still hurts and there's a dent in the headboard now but—but the flashback stopped.

The hands are gone, the touches are gone, the voice is gone.

He reaches back with gossamer fingers and brushes over the bump already forming at the back of his head. His fingers come back bloody.

Instead of rushing to the bathroom to clean it off and go get someone to take a look at the head injury, Peter sits there, transfixed by the shiny blood staining his fingertips.

It hurts. Hell, it hurts like before when he was so confused and his mind was foggy and he couldn't stop the throbbing in his head, but being stuck in that nightmare was worse. He'd rather bleed a little then relive the past two months he so desperately wants to forget.

" _Injury detected_ ," Friday speaks up, snapping Peter's attention away from the blood on his fingers. " _Contacting_ —"

"Don't bother," Peter assures the AI. "It was just an accident, I'm fine. I heal fast too, remember?"

There's a beat of silence. Then: " _Very well. But may I suggest going to get the injury treated as a precaution."_

"It's not that bad, just a little blood." He reaches back and trails the injury. There's less blood on his finger. "See? It's already healing. No harm done."

Friday doesn't respond. Peter takes that as an agreement and sighs. His eyes glance back down at the blood on his fingers. He pinches his index and thumb together and rubs the blood between them.

Yeah, this will have to be another thing he keeps to himself.

•

Peter moves back in to the apartment with May after having Bruce give him a final once-over, despite the boy assuring him he was 100% healed. Bruce had given Peter an odd look and asked how his mental recovery was, he just brushed it off and said _fine_.

May pulled Peter out of the lab before Bruce could question him further, beyond excited to have Peter home again.

She fixes a casserole, but then burns it and orders take out instead. They watch a movie—not _The Great Gatsby_ —and then falls asleep on the couch. Well, May falls asleep on the couch. Peter, who has been sitting in the recliner the whole time, takes it upon himself to turn the TV off, shut off the lights, and return to his room to sleep.

The first night back, Peter wakes up in the middle of the night with phantom hands roaming over his body. He's covered in a cold sweat and his heart is beating out of his chest. To make it worse, there is a damp substance in his boxers. And it's not urine. 

Comprehend horrified and disgusted with himself, Peter trashed his boxers, showers, then spends the rest of the night sitting out on the fire escape. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the brick as he lets the cool breeze drift over him.

Flashes of his dream interrupt his peace and he doesn't even hesitate to slam his head against the brick behind him. The first time doesn't do the trick, he can still feel the hands and taste the semen, so he slams his head back again. And again.

He stops when he feels blood rolling down the back of head and neck, reaching the collar of his shirt.

He quickly cleans up his mess before May can find out and then returns to the fire escape to, well, mentally escape. He keeps his eyes open no matter how heavy they are and watches the navy sky turn purple then pink then a fiery orange.

That's how May finds him that morning, watching the sunrise. She doesn't get an answer when she knocks on Peter's bedroom door, so she quickly barges in, panicked. As soon as she spots Peter's figure on the fire escape, she lets out a breath and slowly approaches him.

"Watching the sunrise, sweetheart?"

Peter sighs, then plasters on a smile and turns to his aunt. "Yeah, sorry if I worried you, I wasn't—" _able to watch the sunrise before_ "—going to stay out here too long, just wanted to enjoy it, you know?"

May hums, agreeing. "You hungry? I was thinking about making some French toast."

"Yeah, sounds great, thanks."

May smiles and reaches out, squeezing his shoulder before turning and heading to the kitchen. As soon as she's gone, the smile on Peter's face drops instantly.

•

Peter asks May about school at dinner. She immediately stops chewing the salad in her mouth and Peter suddenly regret saying anything at all and—

_The plate in Quinten's hand shatters against the counter top. Peter jumps back, eyes wide and heart beating out of his chest._

_Unbridled anger flares in Quinten's eyes. "I fucking said no, Peter!"_

"If you're feeling up to it," May says, pulling Peter out of the flashback and into reality. He blinks and winces at the burn in his chest and—oh, he isn't breathing.

May looks up at the sound of Peter's sharp inhale. He plays it off with a fake yawn, then says, "Yeah, I've just been tired, but I'm sure I'll be fine."

Poking around at her salad, May says, "I just don't want you to push yourself after being gone for so long."

"I won't," Peter lies between his teeth. "I might change my mind later, but I probably won't. I want to go back to school. Have a little normalcy, you know?"

May smiles. "I guess I was just expecting you to be less . . ." She gestures with her fork. "Open to going to school, especially since you didn't get a second of your summer break."

"It's fine. I want to go back, anyways."

May reaches across the table and takes Peter's hand. Peter resists the urge to pull his back to his chest.

"I'm so proud of you, Peter," she says, and Peter's heart sinks.

She doesn't know about Beck.

She doesn't know about the panic attacks.

She doesn't know about the flashbacks.

She doesn't know about him bashing his head open on purpose.

She doesn't know how weak he is.

_She doesn't know._

"My strong boy."

•

Sometimes May forgets Peter has super senses, which means he can hear through the walls, which means he can hear her entire conversation with Tony on the phone, including Tony's side.

It's the afternoon now, and Peter is in his room under he guise of reviewing what he learned last year at school so he can be prepared for this year, but he's really just scrolling through his phone. Or, he does until he hears that May's on the phone with Tony. Normally Peter would be polite and not eavesdrop, but it's hard when he literally hears his name.

 _"How is he?"_ That's Tony.

"He's actually been adjusting pretty well."

_"Really? Any nightmares?"_

"Not that I know of. He doesn't wake up screaming or anything anymore."

_"Anymore?"_

Peter groans in embarrassment. Thanks, May.

"He woke up screaming a few nights after I saw Spider-Man in a news segment about the Vulture incident."

_"Ah. So he's not having nightmares?"_

"I don't think so. And he's eating, too. Not as much as he used to, but it's something."

Peter feels guilty at that. He still throws up after meals sometimes.

_"Hm. Maybe we need Banner to make him a meal plan or something, the kid is all skin and bones."_

"It's only been a few days, give it some time. We can't expect everything to go back to normal right away."

" _Yeah, I guess. I just—I don't know why I'm so surprised he's recovering so fast. When I was captured in Afghanistan, I struggled for years with PTSD. I couldn't sleep, eat, or function. And Peter's just jumping right back with a smile on his face."_

"Our boy is strong. Resilient."

" _Yeah, he is."_ There's a pause. " _Not that I don't appreciate being informed about the kid's progress, but is there another reason why you called?"_

"Right, yeah. I was just wondering how you felt about Peter returning to school at the start of the school year next week?"

_"Next week?"_

"I know, it seems pretty sudden, especially since we just got him back, but Peter's the one who brought it up. He seems to really want to get back to normal as soon as possible."

_"As long as he's ready, I don't see why not."_

As long as he's ready.

Peter sighs and rolls over to his back. He doesn't think he could ever be ready. He can already hear Ned's million and on questions and Flash's taunts and the feeling of being in a closed space for seven hours and he can't leave and _the door is locked from the outside help I'm trapped I can't get out—_

Peter stumbles out of bed and fumbles to open the window. He steps out onto the fire escape in just his socks, t-shirt, and jeans, and leaps down the building to land adroitly on the ground below.

He doesn't go anywhere. He just . . . he just steps out onto the street and breathes.

It smells like polluted city air and sour hotdogs, but it's air and it's free and he's free. He's not trapped.

Peter only stands outside for five or so minutes before heading back up the side of the building. He doesn't crawl back in through his window, though. He just sits out on the fire escape and continues to breathe until May calls him for dinner. 


	6. Questions

Peter is alone in the apartment. May left for work that morning, under the impression that Peter would be fine alone because he is fine and he has told her so multiple times.

He is fine. Fine fine fine.

Then she shuts the door behind her and he hears her lock the door behind her and, logically, he knows that he can unlock it from the inside of he wanted to, but that paired with being alone in the small apartment throws Peter into a panic and he's suddenly freaking out and his chest hurts and he's not breathing and he blinks and he's under the table.

It all just reminds him too much of Beck and the cabin. Beck asking if Peter will be okay alone while he's at work, then locking the door behind him and leaving Peter all alone for hours.

He bites down on his lip to suppress a whimper as his hands clasp over his head. He can feel his nails digging into his scalp.

 _Just open a window_ , the rational side of his brain says. _Just step out onto the fire escape. Calm down._

Peter starts to move, but as soon as he crawls out from under the table, fear seizes his entire body and he freezes on his hands and knees.

_What if Quentin finds out?_

"No, stop, stop," he mutters, hitting his head with the heel of his palm. "Not here, he's _not here_."

But what if May finds out he left? She must've locked the door for a reason. He can't leave.

He can't leave and he's trapped and he's not allowed to look out the window and Quentin will be so mad when he finds out and then he'll throw him to the floor and hit him and kick him and hurt him.

A choked cry rips from Peter's throat and he slams his forehead against the tiled floor.

It isn't until his eyelids are fluttering and then squinting against the kitchen light above him making the throbbing in his head worse that he realizes that he knocked himself out.

With a groan, Peter slowly pushes himself up off the ground and sits back on his heels. He raises a tentative hand to his forehead. As soon as the pad of his finger brushes against the sensitive bump, he winces and pulls away.

Staggering up to his feet and only swaying a little, Peter stumbles out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. He braces himself against the counter and stares at his reflection, his eyes immediately darting to the egg-sized bruise on his forehead that grazes his hairline. It's a watercolor masterpiece of purples and blues, the edges holding a hint of red.

He's so screwed when May comes home from work.

But he has fast healing abilities, so the swelling should mostly go down and the bruise should at least start to fade by the time she comes home. He just needs to come up with a believable excuse.

Five minutes before four o'clock rolls around, a soft click followed by the front door opening alerts Peter of his aunt's arrival. He burrows deeper under his covers, takes a few deep breaths, then pulls the blanket off of him and stands with a smile on his lips.

Practice makes perfect. Perfect means no one is worried. When no one is worried, there's nothing to worry about.

"Peter? You awake?" May calls out.

Peter opens his door and pokes his head out. "Yep! How was work?"

He watches the way May's eyes fill with concern at the sight of Peter's forehead—even though it definitely looks 78% better than it did a couple hours ago—as she sets her purse on the kitchen table.

"Honey, what happened?" She rushes to cradle his face in her hands.

Peter ignores the fact that there are hands on his body ( _hands_ _hands_ _hands_ ) and rolls his eyes. "Oh yeah, that. I totally biffed it on the coffee table earlier."

Her eyes lower from the bruise to his eyes. "Really?" He nods. "But I thought with your Peter Tingle that kind of stuff wouldn't happen?"

"First of all, please don't call it that," Peter whines, even though he isn't too bothered because he can't really focus on anything other than the _hands_ on his face. "Also, I'm just clumsy in general. It doesn't help that my senses are still a little wonky from . . . you know." His voice involuntarily drops off into a hushed whisper at the end.

May frowns but seems to accept his excuse. Patting his cheek, she finally lets her hands drop from the skin of his face. Peter's whole body relaxes.

"I swear I'm going to wrap you up in bubble wrap," May threatens lightly. "Hey, I brought some cookies home from that bakery you like."

She takes out a pouch from her purse, too occupied to see Peter's face fall.

He doesn't . . . He doesn't remember a certain bakery that he likes.

But why would May say that if it wasn't true?

Maybe she's lying. She could be lying and everything could be a lie and that's why she locked the door behind her _she's trapping you just like Quentin, get out!_

Peter catches himself on the doorframe before he can collapse in a heap on the floor. May looks over her shoulder at him with a furrowed brow. "You okay?"

"I want to leave." He licks his chapped lips. No, they're not chapped, just cracked and in a perpetual state of healing from biting them. "Now."

May must mistake his panic for something like anger. She frowns and leans her hip against the table. "Okay, why?"

"I need to go."

Without any further explanation, Peter takes three long strides to the door, wrenches it open, and leaves.

As soon as he steps outside of the apartment, he feels a wave of freedom wags over him. It hits him like a crashing ocean wave and sends chills down his spine.

But then a hand ( _hands hands hands_ ) wraps around his bicep and pulls him back inside.

"Peter! Where are you going?"

He yanks his arm from her grip and pushes her away. ( _Get off get off get off_.) The force is stronger than he intended and causes May to stumble back a little to catch her balance. Her wide eyes take in her nephew that just pushed her away. Like, physically pushed her away.

"Tell me what's wrong." Her voice is firm. Deep. Angry?

"Let me go," Peter gasps. Oh, he wasn't breathing again. His lungs feel on fire as he inhales and exhales sharply without a clear rhythm. Burning. Trapped. "Please, just let me _go_."

He can feel the walls rapidly closing in. The ceiling presses against his spine and the walls cramp his shoulder blades and cause his shoulders to hunch together and his lungs to deflate.

"Go where?"

"Out!" Peter's hands shoot up to his head. "I need—I can't—I—I—" He clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. " _Help_."

May's eyes go wide. She barely manages to catch Peter's body as his knees give out and he goes limp. Slowly lowering him to the ground while cradling him tight, she whispers reassurances in his ears that he's okay.

But he fights against her touch. He sobs and shakes against her and wrestles out of her arms. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he scrambles back until he's pressed against the wall out of May's reach.

She sits there, watching with glossy eyes, as her nephew composes himself.

His glistening doe eyes dart around the room before landing on May. He blinks a few times before closing them and leaning his head back against the wall and just focuses on breathing.

After a few prolonged minutes, he opens his eyes. May's still watching. A single tear track runs down her cheek.

Peter clears his throat and crosses his legs, his elbows on his knees. "Sorry." It comes out a whisper.

"Are you okay?" she asks, voice shaky.

He nods. "Yeah. Sorry. That was—I didn't mean—"

He did that to her. He made her worried and scared and he pushed her away. What kind of nephew is he?

"No one means to have a panic attack." She fixes him with a concerned deadpan look. He looks away. "What was that about?"

"Nothing."

"Peter—"

"Seriously nothing, Aunt May," Peter cuts off sharply before softening his gaze. "Sorry. But it's not, it's not a big deal. It wasn't even about . . . It was Homecoming night again."

More lies. At this point, it's just a reflex to lie.

The confusion on May's face contorts her features. "Homecoming?"

"Yeah. I don't know why." Peter internally cringes. He hates this. "I've just been tired, I guess, and it just, you know, happened."

May nods slowly. "Okay. So it wasn't about being gone?"

"It wasn't even that bad," Peter lies, referring to him being gone. "Honest. It just left me emotionally vulnerable, I think."

The skepticism still lingers in her eyes as she trails her calculating state over Peter's face. He schools it to be calm and collected, but not too collected as to raise suspicion.

Looking her in the eyes, he says, "I'm fine."

And May somehow buys it. 

•

"He's bouncing off the walls," May tells Tony over the phone.

Peter may or may not be eavesdropping again.

Okay. He totally is. But it's okay because they're talking about him behind his back.

_"He's that excited for school?"_

Peter doesn't have to see Tony for him to know that the man has some doubts about the whole thing. He texted Peter yesterday, asking to make sure if he really was okay enough to go to school so early. Peter found that it is easier to lie through a screen than face-to-face.

"Yeah, and to see his friends."

 _Friend_. Singular. It's just Ned, but he's not sure how long that will last.

"I think it'll be good for him, Tony, _"_ May continues in a hopeful pitch.

 _"I know, I just—_ " There's a sigh. " _And he still hasn't had any nightmares or panic attacks at all?"_

Peter stills. It's been two days since his little freak-out. May hasn't really brought it up much. She dances around it, probably to avoid causing another one somehow. Or maybe she isn't worried. Peter's heart lurches at the thought because he's _drowning_ , but another part of him nods approvingly.

His hope that May has just forgotten about his little episode fades as soon as she says, "Well, there was an incident the other day, but it only happened once and he bounced right back."

_"Incident? What kind of incident?"_

"He just freaked out a little, tried to run out of the apartment, pushed me a little when I made him stay. I think it was a panic attack or something because he didn't seem to be . . . there."

_"Why didn't you tell me about this?"_

"Peter and I talked it out," May says, getting slightly defensive. "He calmed himself down pretty fast and explained what the panic attack was about. It's handled."

" _He_ pushed _you, May. That doesn't sound like something Peter would ever do. He has never shown any violence or lashing out when I help him down from an attack in the past."_

"It was just one time, Tony," May sighs. "And it wasn't even a push push, more of a light shove."

There's a beat of silence.

_"I don't know if school is the best thing for him right now."_

Peter's brow furrows. What?

"What do you mean?" May asks, and Peter listens for Tony's reply.

_"I just don't have a good feeling about it."_

"We can't keep him cooped up in the apartment forever, Tony. He says he's ready, and I trust him." May sounds . . . mad. Slightly mad. But that's not new, Tony usually makes her mad anyways, even before Peter was gone. Still, guilt eats at his insides for potentially causing an argument between the two.

Not wanting to listen to the rest of the conversation, Peter turns in his bed and buries his head under the covers as he pulls his phone back out. The light burns at his eyes in the darkness the blanket creates before he quickly adjusts the brightness.

He scrolls through the endless texts Ned has sent him over the past two months for the first time since he's been back. He doesn't know why he's been putting it off. Ned is his friend and he can't just ignore him. Ned doesn't deserve that.

The texts range from rants to questions about hanging out over the weekend and eventually lead into concerned messages. The newest texts tell Peter to get better soon and that he's there for him whenever he needs him.

Peter groans and shuts his phone off, laying it face-down on the mattress. As soon as he does, his phone vibrates.

With one eye open, Peter lifts the phone and squints at the screen.

 **From: Mr. Stark**  
 **> **Hey kid, you excited for school tomorrow?

Peter opens his other eye and props his head up on his palm, his elbow digging into his pillow.

 **To: Mr. Stark**  
 **> **yep! i'm really looking forward to ap trig & ap biochem

 **From: Mr. Stark**  
 **>** Sounds like fun

The little speech bubble with three dots pops up, disappears, then pops up again.

 **From: Mr. Stark**  
 **> **You know you can talk to me about anything, right?

Peter bites down on his lip. Tony's still suspicious, and Peter honestly doesn't even know why. He hasn't even seen Peter in like a week, why does he suspect something's off with him?

 **To: Mr. Stark**  
 **> **of course

Peter doesn't know what else to say, so he just leaves it as that.

Tony replies within seconds.

 **From: Mr. Stark**  
 **>** I mean it, kid. Call/text me whenever, even if it's like 2 am

Biting down harder on his lip, Peter types out a response, then deletes it. They all come out too chipper and too happy and too fake.

He eventually just types out something not fake for once and sends it without over-thinking it like all his other responses.

 **To: Mr. Stark**  
 **>** thank you

•

Ned Leeds is a good person. He's everything anyone could ever want in a friend: loyal, kind, funny, understanding, and caring. He used to bring extra food in his lunch box for Peter when he found about his super-metabolism because he knew Peter didn't tell May about it (Tony eventually told May, which resulted in a long conversation about telling her things that directly affects his health). Ned can see internal struggles and can offer an out when struggling in a social situation (The duo when to a party one time and Ned went to the bathroom to call Peter as if he were his aunt to tell him he needed to get home right away for a "family emergency" when he noticed Peter's hands shaking when Flash was blatantly insulting him in front of a bunch of pretty girls.)

Ned knows when not to push and when to push. He knows Peter's favorite foods, his favorite scents, and his favorite movies. He knows Peter's pet-peeves and everybody who picks on him.

Ned is so pure.

That's why, when Peter spots him in the hallway on the first day of school, he suddenly feels so _dirty_. Not just for how he's been ghosting him, but because of what he did, what he believed, what he _let happen,_ over the past few months.

Peter is permanently tarnished. Ned is gold; untarnished.

"Dude," Ned says when he comes up to free Peter, "I can't believe you got _kidnapped_."

Okay, so maybe Ned's excitement sometimes got the better of him.

"Was it because of _Spider-Man_?" Ned whispers, though it isn't too quiet and Peter holds back from physically clamping a hand over his friend's mouth. "Was it a villain? Did he have a cool name?"

Peter suddenly stops. Ned has to backtrack a few steps to return to Peter's side.

"Can we compare schedules?" Peter asks, and Ned instantly pulls his out, silently getting the memo.

"Oh, yeah, sure." He pulls a wrinkled sheet of paper out of his back pocket and unrolls it. "Hey, we have AP Trig together!"

•

_"First day back, how was it?"_

Peter shrugs, even though Tony can't see him over the phone.

"It was good." Peter sets his phone down on his desk and presses speaker so he can peel his socks off his feet while still talking. "The lunch sucked, and Flash didn't lose his attitude during the summer, but good."

_"Please tell me none of your teachers assigned any homework on the first day."_

Peter scoffs. "Of course they did."

 _"That's the worst,"_ Tony remarks, and Peter can't help but agree. _"Hey, you busy this weekend, Underoos?"_

"Not particularly. Why?"

 _"Why don't I have Happy come pick you up after school on Friday and take you on over to the compound? We could work on some of your homework and work on some of those projects we've been neglecting_."

 _Yeah, 'cuz I was kidnapped_ , Peter wants to say, but instead replies evenly, "I'll have to ask Aunt May, but—"

_"Done and done; I already asked her for permission before I brought it to you."_

Peter frowns. Then why had he asked if Peter was busy in the first place?

"O-Okay. But we don't have to work on my homework, I'll probably have plenty of time to work on it because I'm not patrolling for a while." Forever, possibly, but he doesn't add that.

 _"Whatever you want,"_ Tony replies. " _And if you don't want to come over, that's fine, too. I'm not going to force you to spend time with me."_

Peter frowns. "So . . . You don't want me to come over this weekend?"

_"What? That's not at all what I—Kid, for a genius, sometimes you fall behind in conversation. I was just saying you could say no to my invitation."_

"I don't think anyone just says no to Iron Man."

" _Well, you're not anyone, are you?"_

Peter doesn't know how to respond.

_"So, does that mean you're coming over this weekend, or . . . ?"_

Peter sits back. Tony's still suspicious of him. Maybe if he could see firsthand, like May, that he's alright then he'll back off.

"Yeah, of course." 

•

Peter's search history is filled with websites and blogs about sexuality. While searching about sexuality he accidentally clicks on a porn link and big, naked breasts popped onto his screen before he can quickly push the back button. After that jump-scare, he learns to read the links before selecting them.

He's still having dreams. Despite how much he loathes them, he's having dreams. More often than not, they're graphic scenes of himself doing sexual acts with Beck. The worst part is that, in every one of the dreams, his dream self enjoys every last second of it.

But Peter still can't wrap his head around enjoying the act. With Beck, at least. Maybe it's the same for any man.

Or maybe Peter's being stupid and homophobic. He doesn't think he is, but he is disgusted by the idea of being intimate with a man. He would ask Ned, but he doesn't want to sound ignorant or raise any red flags. Also, he and Ned have ever discussed sexuality. Peter's pretty sure Ned is straight, considering his only crushes have only been girls, and Peter has never said anything to make Ned believe he's gay. He thinks, at least. If what Beck said was true _(_ _"If you're wondering if you're still gay or not, trust me, you are._ _Your dick wouldn't have reacted the way it did the other night if you weren't."_ _),_ then maybe Peter has shown some signs of being gay unknowingly. But he and Ned haven't ever talked about it.

That's why he turns to Michelle Jones.

He waits all week, biting his tongue with questions, because he just knows that she would have the answers. She's pretty knowledgable about basically everything, but especially social and political issues. She'd know if Peter was being a homophobe or not and wouldn't be weird about it. Plus, she came out as asexual last year, and Peter didn't even know that was a thing.

Peter approaches Michelle after Decathlon practice. He glances at his phone—Happy's waiting outside for him—and then looks up at her and clears his throat. 

Michelle looks up from the book her nose was stuck in with an impassive look set on her soft features. "Parker."

"Hey." He clears his throat again. Looks around the room as everyone files out. "I was wondering if I could talk to you real quick?"

Michelle narrows her eyes and slowly puts her book down on the table. Weaving her fingers together in front of her, she says, "Okay. Talk."

_Where to begin?_

"I, uh, had a question." He realizes he's standing while she's sitting, so he pulls out the chair across from her and sits with jerky movements. He feels her calculating stare watching his every move. "About, like, sexuality. Kind of."

She raises a brow.

"So, yeah." He clears his throat for the third time. "I mean, I just—I was just wondering if . . . Like, what makes someone homophobic?"

Michelle blinks. "What?"

"Hypothetically," Peter continues, avoiding her gaze, "if someone—a guy—thought that doing . . . being, like, like, sexually intimate with another guy was gross and disgusting, would I— _he_ , would _he—_ be homophobic?" 

Peter waits a solid ten seconds with his heart beating out of his chest and his mind running wild for Michelle to respond.

"Depends," she finally says, her eyes reading Peter's face like a book. "Do you think gay people are disgusting, or do you just find having sex with a guy to be disgusting for you?"

Peter blanches. Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he stutters, "I-I, I didn't—"

"It's obviously not hypothetical, so drop the bullshit, Parker," Michelle cuts across dryly.

He clamps his mouth shut. 

"I'm assuming you're just not gay," she says. "It's okay to not see the appeal of having sex with men."

Peter clenches his hands into fists. He barely feels the sting of his nails digging into his palms. "I don't mean to be gross, but . . . aren't you gay if your body reacts to it, even if your mind doesn't like it or want it?"

Silence stretches between them like taffy. It's thick and Peter just wants some damn answers but Michelle is staring at him weirdly and isn't saying anything.

After almost a solid minute of silence, Peter pushes his chair back and stands. "Never mind, forget it."

He can feel his phone vibrating with a text from Happy, probably telling him to hurry up.

Peter's halfway to the door, his backpack slung over one shoulder, when Michelle says, "What happened?"

He pauses, his sneakers squeaking against the floor. He looks over his shoulder to find Michelle standing but still watching Peter with an unreadable face.

"What?" he asks, his brow pulling forward.

"What happened?" she repeats, her voice as monotone as usual. "People don't just ask questions like that for no reason."

Peter shifts his weight between his feet. "I—Nothing. Nothing happened."

"Who did it?" Michelle presses. When Peter just stares at her, not answering, she sits back down and says, "Tell someone, at least."

Peter tugs on the strap of his backpack. Turning back to the door, he says, "I don't have anything to say." 


	7. Disappointment

Weekends at the compound were always the highlight of Peter's week. Working in the lab by Tony Stark's side then staying up late to either finish projects or watch movies was more than he could ever ask for. They'd have moments where Peter almost slipped and called Tony _dad_ instead of _Mr. Stark._ Other moments, they were laughing so hard Peter would fall off his work bench or Tony would scare Peter into thinking he was having a heart attack.

But the was before Peter was gone.

Coming back to the compound for a weekend for the first time since the whole Beck thing puts Peter on edge like it never has before. He's not just coming over to play mentee, he's on a mission to efface all suspicions of his mental health being anything but superb.

In other words, Peter plans on lying all weekend.

And lying to Tony is so much harder than lying to May because the man just seems to _know_.

Peter puts up a front in the car with Happy, so by the time he's going down the elevator to the lab, he's already exhausted. His shoulders are slumped as he rubs the fatigue from his eyes. With the lack of decent sleep and his constant pretending, he's both physically and mentally _tired_.

The elevator doors open. Peter relaxes his shoulders, lifts his chin, and presents a casual—if not slightly happy— look on his face.

"Hey, Mr. Stark!" he chirps when he steps into the lab and spots the man leaning over his work desk. Upon stepping closer, Peter recognizes the gadget he's working on as a part of an Iron Man suit.

Tony glances up at Peter and smiles. "Hey, kiddo. How was school today?"

Sliding his backpack onto his own lab desk and taking a seat, he says, "Normal."

You know, if asking the scary quiet girl about your sexuality and then being confronted and accused of being sexually assaulted was normal. And then having a mini-panic attack as you walked out of the school but then compressing it so you didn't scare your mentor's driver. Totally normal.

"You want to work on homework or come over here and help me with this faulty repulser?" Tony nods to the gadget on his desk.

"Is that even a question?"

When Tony grins, Peter mentally pats himself on the back.

This is what he wanted, right? For Tony to not worry about him? This is good. This is what Peter wanted. Still, there's a twist in his gut and a voice inside screaming _Why can't you see that I'm drowning?_

He ignores the voice. Pushes it down. Focuses on the task at hand.

Tony gives Peter a quick run-over of the problem with the repulser. Well, what _seems_ to be the problem. He can't exactly figure out why it isn't functioning properly and asks Peter to take a look at it to see if he can. Tony leans against the table, ready to wait a while for Peter to eventually give in, but it only takes a solid twenty seconds with the repulser in his hand for Peter to set it down and say, "The section begins the palm where the intake of air runs isn't isolated, so it's not meeting the electrical current like it should."

Tony stares at Peter, unblinking, and Peter sets his hands in his lap and fidgets with his fingers. Did he say the wrong thing? Did he sound too arrogant?

"Sorry," Peter cuts in before Tony can grasp onto any words.

That seems to kick start his brain. He looks between the repulser and Peter before settling his gaze on the boy. "You're sorry for fixing a problem I've been trying to figure out for days in under a _minute_?"

Peter shifts in his seat. "Was this . . . a test?"

"No," Tony says, giving Peter an odd look. "It wasn't—I honestly didn't expect you to figure it out. Wow. Okay." He laughs and scratches his beard. "I'm blaming it on old age, not my IQ. Which is really high, by the way."

"You're not even that old," Peter snorts.

Picking up a screw driver, Tony says, "My bones crack like a firework show when I try to get off the couch; I'm getting old."

Peter smiles and shakes his head, but then stills.

That wasn't fake. For the first time in _months_ , Peter genuinely smiled.

Why does the thought make his heart flutter anxiously? This is good. No, this is beyond good, it's great. If he can keep smiling without faking it, then it'll make his job of seeming okay 97% easier. 

That thought makes him smile again.

The smile falters at his phone vibrating in his back pocket and, after pulling it out, seeing a text from Ned.

**From: Ned**  
 **>** hey michelle just texted me something weird

And, yeah, Peter's genuine lightness instantly takes a nose dive into a deep, dark ravine.

His thumbs freeze over the screen, but before he can even get his thoughts in order to respond, Ned sends a second text.

**From: Ned**  
 **>** she said something was wrong with you

Everything slowly falls into place in his mind.

Peter had a conversation with Michelle. The conversation went south. Michelle knew too much. Michelle told Ned something. _What the fuck._

Maybe he can play it off. Make a joke.

**To: Ned**  
 **>** what else is new lmao  
 **>** she's always calling us losers

**From: Ned**  
 **>** yeah, but like she went out of her way to individually text me  
 **>** and i saw that you stayed after acadeca practice  
 **>** did something happen??

Peter freezes. How the hell is he supposed to explain that?

"Earth to Underoos."

Peter's head snaps up, his eyes meeting Tony's inquisitive gaze.

"Everything okay there?" he asks, and Peter instantly relaxes his features and laughs nervously.

"Yeah, sorry." He holds up his phone, his screen facing away from Tony. "Ned just sent me a weird meme I didn't get."

"You understood my tech—which I couldn't even figure out—but can't understand a meme Ted sent you?"

Peter ignores the fact Tony purposefully called Ned the wrong name and says, "It's a reference to a game I haven't played."

"I'm surprised there are still games out there you haven't played," Tony remarks with a sarcastic smile.

Peter shrugs. "I mean, it came out in July, so . . ."

He watches Tony's face fall and instantly regrets his lie. He should've picked something else. Should've said something else.

"Sorry, bud," Tony says, which just makes Peter feel worse.

"No, it's fine." Peter gives a small smile. "It doesn't really bother me all that much anymore. It's been weeks, after all."

"That doesn't matter," Tony counters lightly. "You could have been back for three years and still be affected by it."

Peter shrugs. "But I'm not, so it's all good."

"It doesn't have to be," Tony reminds him.

"But it _is_ ," Peter argues, his eyes narrowing to study the man in front of him to figure out his deal. "Why are you so adamant that I'm not okay?"

"I'm not," Tony placates, showing his palms. "Just worrying, is all. Making sure that your aunt and I aren't missing anything important."

Peter frowns. "Like what?"

"Like why you aren't doing so hot in school," Tony supplies, shifting to face Peter better. The boy in question stiffens. Tony notices and says, "You know, most kids usually have straight A's the first week of school, not failing grades."

Peter's gaze hardens. "I'm not failing."

"No," Tony agrees, eyes alight with something like a mixture of curiosity and concern. "But you will be if you continue to not turn in your homework."

Peter's cheeks flush red. How does he know about that? The school's policy is calling a parent or guardian if the student receives a failing grade. They don't call home for C's and D's, and they especially don't call to say that Peter is specifically not turning in his homework.

"How—?"

"I just wanted to check up on how you were doing at school and made a few calls to your teachers," Tony explains calmly, like their conversation isn't making Peter's head spin and stomach lurch. Fixing Peter with a sincere look, Tony asks, "Why aren't you participating in class or turning in your homework?"

Peter keeps his mouth shut. His phone burns a hole through his hand with Ned's unanswered text and Tony's eyes are like lasers and he needs to _leave this is not good not good get out—_

No. Nope. No panicking, especially not in front of Tony.

Looking down and taking a breath, Peter says, "Just because I'm okay doesn't mean I'm . . . I'm 100% me again." He glances up at Tony, who is listening intently. "It's an adjustment, but I've got it handled."

"Do you?" Tony asks.

Pete nods, swallowing dryly. "Yeah. I, uh, asked a friend for help in one of my classes already."

When Tony still doesn't look completely sold, Peter says, "I'm really okay, Mr. Stark. Trust me."

And how hypocritical is that?

•

_He's in the cabin again. It's dark, all the windows blocked like usual, but the lights seem to be out, too. Or maybe they're just not turned on._

_Shadows creep up the walls like ivy. Peter blindly reaches for a light switch, but instead of his hand landing on the switch or the wall, it lands on a chest._

_Whirling around, Peter comes face-to-face with Tony. But that doesn't make sense. Why is Tony in the cabin? Where's Quentin?_

_Peter starts to pull hand back, about to ask where his husband is, but Tony grabs onto his hand in a bone-crushing grip. Peter lets out a cry. Tony ignores his pain and drags him out of the dark living room down the short hall where a light is coming from the bedroom._

_Peter scratches at Tony's hand and begs him to_ let him go.

_And he does._

_Peter falls back from the force of being let go so suddenly while pulling against him. Instead of crashing to the floor, he lands on the soft surface of a bed with a sharp gasp._

_His eyes wildly look around. He's in Quentin's bedroom, but the window is wide open, a gentle breeze blowing in and sunshine flooding the room in its warmth. A soft smile touches Peter's lips at the warmth on his naked skin._

_Wait. Naked? Peter looks down at his body with a frown and grabs a pillow to cover himself. When did he take off his clothes?_

_"Hey there, kiddo."_

_Peter's head snaps up. Tony stands in the doorway, smirking maliciously as his eyes rake over Peter's body. Suddenly, the pillow is gone._

_"M-Mister," Peter stutters, scrambling away to curl up in a ball to shield his private parts he never wanted Tony to see. "Mister Stark? What—?"_

_Tony's on him in a heartbeat. Peter makes a choked sound of fear and tries to push him off, but his muscles are like jelly and he can't do anything he can't do anything he can't do anything while Tony's kissing down his neck and his chest and his navel and—_

_•_

Peter can't make eye contact with Tony during breakfast, not after that dream he had the night before. He woke up that morning sweaty and heart racing, but thankfully his boxers were dry this time.

He's sitting across from Tony right now. The man is on his laptop, scrolling through emails, and Peter is glad that he isn't trying to make small talk. He doesn't think he could hold up much of a conversation with Tony. How could he? He just—he had a wet dream about him, his mentor, his father-figure. What kind of sick person does that make him?

He hates it. He hates the dream. He hates all his dreams. He hates _himself_.

Tony's eyes flicker from his laptop screen to Peter's untouched plate of pancakes. "You waiting for it to get cold before you eat that?"

Peter doesn't crack a smile. He looks away and says, "Sorry, I'm not—I'm not all that hungry."

A frown plasters itself on Tony's face. He closes the laptop lid and tilts his head, studying Peter's bags under his eyes and pale skin.

After a few moments, Peter thinks he's just going o stare at him. But then Tony finally says, "Nightmares?"

Peter looks up, only meeting his eyes for a split second before looking down. "I'm fine."

"I didn't ask if you were fine," Tony patiently says. When Peter doesn't respond, he sighs and sits back in his chair. "I got nightmares for months after I returned from Afghanistan. I still get flashbacks from that wormhole every now and then."

"I don't get flashbacks," Peter murmurs, looking anywhere but at Tony. And the pancakes. He doesn't want to even look at the sugary excuse of a breakfast. "My time when I was gone wasn't, like bad. I wasn't tortured like you."

"Trauma is trauma, kid. There's no comparing."

Peter bites down softly on his bottom lip and doesn't respond.

Tony waits, but when it's obvious Peter isn't going to be the first one to give in, he says, "If you're having nightmares regularly, we can have Bruce come over and make something up for you so they go away."

Peter almost takes the bait. His eyes almost light up, and he almost meets Tony's gaze.

Instead, he keeps his face neutral and mutters, "I'm not having nightmares."

"Peter—"

"What do you want me to say?" Peter cuts across, his voice sharp. "Do you want me to lie and say that I'm having nightmares and flashbacks and—and that I have, like, PTSD or shit? Because I don't."

Tony stares at him. But he isn't angry, like Peter's expecting. He isn't calling him out for his language. Isn't telling him to calm down. He's just . . . listening.

"I'm doing okay," Peter says, softening his voice when he realizes Tony doesn't plan on escalating. "Honest."

Tony pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. After a moment, he says, "I believe you, kid. I'm sorry for not trusting you."

Peter sits back. Nods. "Thank you."

But he still sees the worry shining Tony's eyes and he knows the man is lying.

•

Peter goes straight to bed after Happy drops him off outside his apartment. He offers to walk Peter up, which is something he's never done before, but Peter brushes him off and tells him he'll be fine.

May pulls him into a hug as soon as he's through the front door.

"I was only gone for like two and a half days," Peter says, forcing a small laugh.

May shrugs and hugs him tighter. "Still missed you." When they pull apart, May asks, "Spaghetti tonight?"

•

Michelle won't stop staring at Peter.

He's noticed it since first period. Her eyes follow him as he slumps into his seat and stays glued on him during the entire lecture. He feels her eyes on him during Trig, too, and even Ned notices. He nudges Peter's elbow, not noticing his tiny flinch, and asks what she wants. Peter just shrugs it off and says she's probably just looking for people to sketch in her notebook. Even during passing period in the halls, Peter catches Michelle watching him from her locker. She doesn't even try to hide it. He slams his locker shut harder than he probably should have and turns the other way and walks out of her sight.

Decathlon practice is even worse. Ned keeps looking between Michelle and Peter, Michelle's eye on him and his gaze avoiding hers. Mr. Harrington, their teacher sponsor, clears his throat awkwardly and asks Michelle if she knows the answer to the question asked. She answers it with no hesitance while never looking away from him.

After Ned's mom comes and picks him up after practice, Peter pulls Michelle aside and asks in a vehement whisper, "What do you want?"

She blinks. "Who said I wanted anything?"

"Why do you keep staring at me?" Peter asks instead.

"Because you haven't told anyone."

"Told anyone what?" Peter snaps.

She raises a brow, seemingly bored at this whole conversation. "You know what. Don't play dumb, Parker."

"I don't know what you think I have to _confess_ ," Peter says, "but I don't have anything to tell anyone."

"It's your choice, man," she replies, holding her hands up. "But my advice is that you tell someone. Take it or leave it."

With that, Michelle steps away and pushes the door, leaving Peter in the library by himself.

•

Peter's sitting in the principal's office across from Mr. Morita. Neither speak, the clicking of the principal's keyboard as he types emails on his computer being the only sound in the small office while they wait for May.

You're probably wondering what Peter did to get sent to the principal's office. It all started when he woke up that morning at 3:00 from a nightmare and took a cold shower, banged his head against the shower wall too hard and woke May up, and was subsequently asked through the door why in the _hell_ he was taking a shower that early in the morning. Then May made pancakes again and Peter actually managed to shove some down his throat ( _"Come on, Peter, you need to eat. Do I need to contact Tony and Dr. Banner?"_ ) before proceeding to throw it all up in a bush on his way to school because it only made him think of _him_ and somehow also made him think of _him in his mouth and—_

So Peter's morning wasn't all that great. Then, when he got to school, Michelle was still staring at him, although it was a little less noticeable. Ned was basically breathing down his neck asking when Spider-Man was going to make his next appearance and then started to send concerned looks towards him when he thought he wasn't looking. All day he felt like a rubber band being stretched and stretched and stretched. Then, in English, the teacher passed out a dingy paperback copy of _The Great Gatsby_ and announced they'd be reading the book for the nine week period and end it with watching the movie. The teacher paired everyone up for partner reading, and honestly Peter felt bad for his partner, but he physically couldn't make himself pick the flimsy book up and read it. His partner raised her hand and told the teacher that Peter was just lying his head down on his desk and not doing the partner reading and the teacher yelled and like a rubber band Peter just _snapped_.

So, yeah. He cursed out a teacher. And then he started to cry a little, but no one saw because he didn't let any of his tears fall.

And now he's waiting in Mr. Morita's office for May to come pick him up. The original plan wasn't to take Peter out of his classes for the rest of the day, but as soon as May got the call about Peter's behavior in class, she said she was coming and promptly hung up the phone before any arguments could be made.

Peter knows the exact moment May arrives. He can pick up the sound of her car door slamming shut in the parking lot, hears the front doors of the school swishing open, and then hears the clacking of her heels against the linoleum.

As soon as she steps into the office, the air turns cold.

May stands, her face schooled emotionless, and her arms crossed over her abdomen while Mr. Morita prompts Peter to explain the situation. Peter sinks further in his seat and sheepishly admits to his inappropriate language and his disrespect towards his English teacher. May's expression doesn't change. At the end of their little meeting, May thanks Mr. Morita then escorts Peter out.

It isn't until they're both in the car that May breaks her silence.

"Peter, what the hell?!" she exclaims, and Peter winces. "Cursing out a teacher? That isn't—that isn't _you_."

"I already apologized to her," Peter says, trying to placate his aunt, but the woman grips the steering wheel until her knuckles are white.

"That doesn't make it okay! Why would you even do that?" she asks, voice still high-pitched.

Peter hugs himself and turns away, looking out the window as they drive past building after building. "I don't know," he mumbles.

"What was that?"

"I don't know," Peter repeats, his volume only slightly louder. "I didn't—I just—I was _tired."_

"Well I'm tired too, because someone decided to wake me up at three in the morning, and you don't see me cursing out my boss," May fires back. She shakes her head. "Gosh, Peter. I don't even know what to say."

Peter blinks back tears for the second time that day. Hugging himself tighter, he whispers, "I'm sorry."

May doesn't respond.   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say how awesome you guys are? I mean, the support I've been receiving for this story is definitely more than I thought I'd get lol. Thank you all who read, leave kudos, comment, etc. Love you all!!
> 
> (also I love love love reading comments, they literally make my day!! feel free to drop one even if it's short or super long, I'll try to respond to all of them)


	8. Confession

Peter avoids May like the plague. It isn't all that intentional, at least not at first. Whenever he sees her he feels his stomach churning with guilt and self-hatred and regret, so he stays in his room until May knocks on his door and says that dinner is done. He quickly eats whatever she makes before retreating back to his room.

May makes pancakes for breakfast again the next morning. Peter can't stomach the thought of eating them again, but he can't speak up now. He can't just tell his aunt to stop being so nice and making him pancakes because they make him want to vomit, especially since the incident at school. He needs to be better. He _has_ to be better.

When May turns to make her coffee, Peter slides a pancake off his plate and into the trash. He quickly straightens when May turns and starts cutting into his other pancake. When she isn't looking, he slips pieces into the pocket of his hoodie until it's all gone. He doesn't empty his pocket out until he arrives to school and dumps the pieces into the trash in the alley between the school building and the football locker room.

School goes by how it usually does: Ned looking concerned and Michelle shooting Peter looks. He ignores both of their efforts and walks through his day like nothing is wrong.

Mr. Harrington has a funeral to attend that afternoon, so they cancel Decathlon practice. Before Peter can leave, though, Mr. Morita stops him and pulls him into his office.

Peter slumps into the chair across from Mr. Morita's seat as the man rests his interlocked hands on the desk between them.

"You're not in trouble," he starts, "but I would like to speak to you about your behavior and performance in class."

Peter nods but doesn't say anything.

With a strained smile, Mr. Morita continues, "Your teachers have reported that you aren't participating during class discussions and that you aren't completing your homework. Your test grades are all 100%, so you're obviously capable of succeeding at Midtown. Your GPA, I'm afraid, doesn't reflect that."

If this were a few months ago, Peter's heart would have been racing. He would be freaking out, asking for extra credit, and probably cry when he got home. But now . . . Peter can't bring himself to care about his GPA. It's the least of his worries.

"Sorry, I'll turn in my homework," Peter says.

Mr. Morita frowns. "Don't get me wrong, I do want you to succeed and get good grades, but I'm more worried about how you're doing. This doesn't seem like the same Peter Parker from last year."

Peter shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and clenches his fists. Doesn't say anything.

"Peter," he says, leaning forward slightly, "Is there something going on at home? Or something in your way of succeeding academically here?"

"I'm fine," Peter says. If he has says the words enough they'll be true. "There's nothing going on at home, I've just been stressed."

Mr. Morita purses his lips in thought. "Do you think you'd benefit from seeing the school counselor?"

Panic shoots down his spine. "No."

"Are you sure? Plenty of students see Mrs. Huisman and find it to be very helpful."

Peter stands, pulling his backpack over one shoulder. "I'm seriously fine, Mr. Morita, but I appreciate your concern. Can I go now?"

The man frowns, taps his fingers against his desk, but nods. "Yes, you may go. Have a good afternoon."

"You too."

His head is full of cotton all the way home. He decides to walk the whole way, needing the time to just think, and ends up arriving at the apartment when the sky darkens.

As soon as he steps through the front door, the smell of pasta overloads his senses. May is at the table, sitting alone with a glass of wine and two plates of tortellini in a garlic cheese sauce.

He slowly closes the door behind him. "Sorry I'm late."

"Where were you?" May asks, her eyes following her nephew as he walks through the apartment. 

"Didn't feel like taking the subway."

He opens his bedroom door, but before he can hide away for the night, May says with a pinch of worry, "You don't want dinner? I made your favorite, tortellini with that cheesy garlic sauce."

Peter looks over his shoulder. May's watching him with pleading eyes.

With a sigh, Peter says, "I'm not hungry," and steps into his room and shuts the door behind him. 

•

It's Saturday. Peter isn't at the compound; apparently Tony had to fly to Japan with Pepper for an important meeting. But it's fine. Peter didn't really feel like leaving his room to lie all weekend, anyways.

May's at work. Peter is . . . alone. But he's keeping his mind occupied with video games and books and his YouTube.

Everything's fine until he goes to change out of his pajama pants he's been wearing all day into some sweatpants and he catches himself in the mirror. His eyes catch a dark bruise on his hip and a bite mark on the inside of his thigh and hickeys on his neck. His lungs deflate and refuse to expand.

_No_. He furiously wipes at a hickey. For the moment be's transported back into the bathroom at the cabin and he's staring blankly at himself after a rough night and all he can see is _him_ all over his body and all he can feel taste smell is _him_.

But then he looks down at himself and sees that his skin is clear. There's no bruises, hickeys, or bite marks. He isn't in the cabin, he's in the apartment.

Beck is still in prison.

Even after coming back to reality, Peter's hands tremble as he pulls his sweatpants on one leg at a time. Ghosts of Beck's finger tips run up and down his thighs and Peter just wants it to stop. He brushes his teeth, he washes his hands, he splashes cold water on his face, but nothing is working and Beck is still there still on him still _touching_ him.

He can _feel_ it.

It's all too much. His head is spinning and he isn't breathing and everything is fuzzy and out of focus.

He doesn't think twice before turning around to set his shaking hands on the wall and slamming his head against it. Not hard enough to break the drywall, but hard enough to leave him slightly jarred.

Peter repeats the action a few times before stopping when a low throb starts in his head. It takes a few seconds to realize the phantom hands are gone.

He immediately goes to his room and takes a four-hour nap. 

•

Peter loves having Ned as a friend, he really does, but he can't take the concerned looks anymore or the careful words the boy says or the way he slides Peter a granola bar during lunch.

He isn't starving. He just knows his limits; if he eats too much, he'll feel sick and then throw up and then he'll feel like crap the rest of the day. To be fair, Ned doesn't know that, though. He only knows that he can see Peter's ribs straining against his shirt when he leans over and how his cheeks look hollowed out and his wrists are tiny fragile bones.

So, Peter can't hate Ned when he asks if Peter has an eating disorder.

When the whispered words coated in fear and apprehension slip out of Ned's mouth, Peter stills and looks up at him with confusion.

"No," he eventually says, and Ned is always able to tell when Peter's lying, so he relaxes at the word. With a frown, Peter says, "My appetite has just been weird lately. I know I look dead."

Ned nods. "You don't look that bad, just . . . skinnier than usual. Sorry. I just wanted to make sure."

"It's cool, dude."

A second of silences passes.

Ned slides over a granola bar. Peter rolls his eyes but takes it.

"So," Ned says, stretching out the word as Peter looks at him in question, "When's Spider-Man making a return?"

He stops chewing. He forgot about that. Well, sort of. He obviously knows that he has super strength and enhanced senses, but he hasn't thought of Spider-Man in a short while.

"Not sure," Peter says, remaining neutral. "I haven't seen Mr. Stark in a little more than a week, but I'm sure he and May wouldn't appreciate it since I'm kinda grounded from it."

Okay, so that's sort-of a lie. Peter just doesn't want Ned to know that he doesn't feel like the strong and brave vigilante the city loves (or occasionally hates). He can't put on the suit. He's just glad neither May or Tony have brought it up yet, though he's sure they wouldn't be comfortable with him swinging around anytime soon.

Ned frowns. "Why haven't you seen Mr. Stark in so long? Don't you usually go to the compound every weekend?"

"Yeah, but he had to join Ms. Potts in Japan for some SI stuff."

Ned tilts his head thoughtfully. "I always wanted to go to Japan."

"Same."

The bell rings. Luckily, Peter just finished the granola bar and Ned was done with his lunch five minutes ago, so they throw their trash away and head into the hall with everyone else.

Ned heads to his class on the other side of the school while Peter returns to his locker. He's exchanged his books for his next class when his locker is slammed shut, nearly shutting his hand in.

"Sup, Penis," Flash taunts, a cocky smile on his face.

Now, for the two years Flash has bullied him, that nickname never really bothered Peter. Sure, it was annoying, but he always brushed it off. Now, though? Peter felt a sheet of ice cover him head-to-toe.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight to get rid of the images that flash in his head. "Shut the fuck up, Flash."

The students standing nearby go quiet at the ferocity and warning in Peter's voice. Peter, who is usually so quiet and smart and kind.

Flash blinks, caught off guard, then lets out a laugh. "Finally grow some balls, Parker? You kiss your mother with that mouth? Oh wait, that's right, she's dead. Oops." He shrugs, an arrogant look settled on his features.

Peter turns and glares. "Leave me alone."

Flash's brow raises in challenge, and then suddenly Flash is pushing him against the locker and his _hands_ are on him and _Quentin is on him and taking his clothes off and_ touching _him—_

Peter swings his fist blindly and gets a good punch straight into Flash's nose. Blood immediately starts pouring from his nostrils like a fountain and the students nearby gasp and back away, some getting out their phones.

Peter's standing with his back against the lockers, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Flash stares at Peter with wide eyes as he cups his bleeding nose.

" _Fucking hell_ ," he hisses in pain, pulling his hand back to assess the blood. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The hallway tilts. The faces of the crowd of students blur together. Peter starts to stumble away, but a firm grip on his bicep keeps him in place. Whirling his head around, he meets the furious gaze of Mr. Morita.

"My office, now." 

•

He's in the principal's office waiting for May to show up for the second time in two weeks. Mr. Morita has Flash fell his side of the story, which is definitely swayed to make Flash look like a victim, and then turns to Peter for his side.

Peter doesn't say anything other than, "I hit him."

And that's it. He doesn't say why, doesn't defend himself, doesn't explain why he was right. Because he wasn't. He shouldn't have ever struck Flash. With his powers, he's lucky he subconsciously held back and didn't kill the guy.

While Flash looks confused as he holds his tissue against his bloody nose, Mr. Morita just looks disappointed.

"I called your guardians," he says to both Flash and Peter. "They should be here soon to pick you both up. Flash, the nurse said you should get a medical opinion on whether or not your nose is broken, so you don't need a note for missing the remainder of the day. You may go sit out in the office lounge for your parents to sign you out."

Flash sends Peter one last confused glance before standing and leaving. Once it's just Peter and Mr. Morita, the man sighs and says, "I'll give you one more opportunity to tell me your side of the story. I know you're not the type of student to randomly start fights, and I know that Flash has a history of picking on you."

Keeping his eyes on his shoes, Peter says, "Flash was right. I—I just punched him for no reason."

Mr. Morita sighs again. "I'm very disappointed in you, Peter. You were a bright, well-behaved student. But, I'm afraid we have a zero-tolerance for physical fights at this school, so you'll at least be suspended for a week. The board still needs to decide the proper punishment."

Peter doesn't respond.

"Do you understand that this could mean possible expulsion if the majority of the board decides on this, Peter?"

He doesn't look up from his sneakers. "Yeah."

Honestly? He deserves it.

Dread fills him for when May arrives and finds out. He really screwed up big time. He's on a scholarship to even be there, and he's failing classes, and getting into fights. There's no way he isn't losing the scholarship.

He can kiss this school, Ned, and AP classes goodbye.

There's a knock on the door, then it's being opened. Peter sinks lower in his seat. He doesn't even want to look at May right now.

"M-Mr. Stark?"

At Mr. Morita's shocked voice, Peter looks over his shoulder and feels his heart plummet.

_Of course_ Tony has to be the one to pick him up. Wait, wasn't he supposed to be in Japan still?

Tony's standing in the doorway in his usual public attire—three-piece suit with his hair neatly done and his blue-tinted glasses on.

"Mr. Morita," Tony replies, stepping up to the desk and extending a hand. They've met before, just over the phone when Tony went behind Peter's back to spy on him. 

The principal shakes his hand with awe written across his face. "Oh, um, are you here for Peter?"

"Yep." Tony glances at Peter, who just ducks his head. "So, what's this about? A fight?" He scans Peter's face like he's expecting him to be the one sporting a black eye. "Who did it?"

"Please, take a seat, Mr. Stark."

"Tony," he says, sitting in the vacant seat beside Peter.

Mr. Morita nods. "Right. Okay, well, the other student recounted the incident as joking around when Peter came up to him and punched him. This student is going to the hospital to check if his nose is broken."

Tony sits in shocked silence before saying, "And what was Pete's side of the story?" He glances at the kid out of the corner of his eye and notes how hunched-up he's sitting and how he's refusing to lift his gaze from the ground.

"Well," Mr. Morita says, "Peter hasn't really gave his side, he just agreed with the other student."

Tony blinks, shocked into silence once again. He turns to Peter, then to the principal.

Mr. Morita continues, "We have a zero-tolerance policy at our school, so Peter is facing either suspension or expulsion, depending on what the board deems as an appropriate punishment."

"Expulsion?" Tony repeats, and Peter shrinks further into himself. "Peter isn't—he isn't a trouble-maker, and he's probably the brightest student you've got at this school, you do realize that, don't you?"

Mr. Morita sighs. "Yes, but this year I'm afraid Peter hasn't had the cleanest record. He was taken out of class for cursing out a teacher last week—" Tony's eyes widen "—and he's failing all of his classes. This isn't something we can just ignore."

"Of course not," Tony quietly agrees, shooting Peter a look the kid doesn't catch. "So when do we get the verdict?"

"You should get a call tomorrow detailing Peter's punishment. For now, let's just say he's suspended."

Peter bites down on his lip. He's already dreading the car ride home and dinner with May tonight.

After signing him out, Tony leads Peter out to the shiny black car parked in front of the school. Tony gets into the passenger seat, so Peter slide so the back. Happy glances back with a mixed look before returning his attention to the road and driving off.

Clenching his fists so his nails dig into his palms, Peter says, "I'm sorry."

Tony doesn't look back, but Peter can tell from his side profile that he's upset. "We'll talk at the compound, kid."

The compound? He isn't going to the apartment? "Aren't you supposed to be in Japan?" he asks instead, the question still weighing on his mind.

"Just got back last night," comes Tony's short response.

"Oh."

The rest of the car ride is silent.

•

He's staring at his hands. He can't force himself to look up and meet Tony's eyes, which he knows are focused on him. He knows the man is disappointed, probably mad, and probably regretful—regretful he ever wasted his time and resources on Peter.

They're sitting in the living area of the Tony's quarters in the Avengers compound. They're both on the couch, Peter on one end and Tony on the other. They've been sitting in complete silence for at least six minutes now. Apparently May has used up her sick days and can't get off work, so he has to deal with Tony until her shift ends.

Peter can't take it. He can't take Tony's staring or his silent treatment or the sound of the water in the pipes his stupid hearing picks up on. He can't take it.

So, he speaks first. His voice is quiet and broken as he whispers, "I'm sorry. I know you're disappointed."

Tony sighs. "What happened?"

"Mr. Morita already told you," Peter murmurs, fidgeting with his fingers. "I hit Flash."

"Flash," Tony echoes, thoughtful. "Isn't that the name of the kid who bothers you?"

Peter doesn't reply.

"Peter," Tony prompts, leaning his elbows on his knees, "Talk to me, kid. I know you didn't punch him just for kicks."

"Maybe I did?" Peter snaps, an angry frown pinching his features. "What would you do if I did it for no reason at all?"

"You never do things without a damn good reason," Tony fires back. "I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me what happened."

"I punched him."

"You're not looking at me."

Peter finally meets Tony's eyes. "I punched him."

"Why?"

"Because, maybe, I'm a terrible person sometimes?" Peter says, his voice sharp. "Maybe I'm not perfect?"

"Hey, look at me," Tony demands when Peter looks away again.

He rolls his eyes but obeys.

"I know something is going on," Tony says, eyes level with Peter's. "I know something's eating you up."

"I'm _fine_."

"No, you're not," Tony snaps, his voice finally raising. "You haven't been fine since we got you back, and you haven't told anyone a single thing about what happened during those two months."

"Nothing happened!" Peter throws his arms up.

"Don't give me that bullshit," Tony warns. "You aren't leaving this couch until you tell me what happened. You can't just—you can't keep everything bottled up and then start lashing out and hurting others!"

Peter doesn't mention that he's also technically hurting himself with all the head-bashing. "I said I was sorry!"

"I'm not looking for an apology, Peter!" Tony stops, breathes out through his nose, and lowers his voice. "I'm looking for the truth. And not some half-assed lie this time."

Peter sits back into the couch cushions with a huff and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Please," Tony tries, his voice softer. "Just—tell me something, please. Get something off your chest. I can't just stand by and watch you fall apart."

Peter glances at Tony. Notes the desperation in his eyes.

There's a prolonged silence. Peter gnaws on his bottom lip.

"I don't like pancakes anymore," Peter says through a tight throat. "I don't—Please don't make them anymore."

Tony blinks, surprised by the thick emotion in Peter's voice. "Okay, no more pancakes, you got it." He pauses, probably deciding whether or not to question it, then says, "Why don't you like pancakes anymore?"

Peter leans forward on his knees. Everything feels too _close_ , too hot. He hides his face behind his hands and whispers, " _He_ always made them."

Tony stills. ". . . Beck?"

Peter nods behind his hands. "And bacon. But even without my memories, I . . . I didn't like it."

Tony's brow pulls forward. "So Beck made you breakfast every morning?"

He nods.

"Okay." Tony nods, too. "Okay. Anything else you want to tell me?"

"I hate him," Peter whispers, his voice just barely audible. "I—I hate myself, _so much."_

"Why?"

"I just—" He breaks off with a humorless laugh and blinks away tears as he sits up, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. "I just _let_ it happen."

"You didn't ask to be kidnapped," Tony argues, firm, but Peter just shakes his head.

"I'm tired," he says, glancing over at Tony with pleading eyes. "Can I go lie down for a while?"

Tony gives a jerky nod, still processing Peter's words. "Yeah, of course. Get some rest."

Peter pushes himself up and shuffles to the door. Before he can step out of the room, his footsteps stop mid-step when Tony calls out, "Pete?"

He looks over his shoulder. Tony offers a small smile.

"Thank you for trusting me."

•

Peter wakes up after a dreamless nap at around seven in the evening. He yawns, sits up, and stills when the sweet scent of orange chicken reaches his nostrils. His stomach growls in response.

Padding out of his room and down the hall to the kitchen, Peter spots Tony in the kitchen with two bags of Panda Express. The man is just sitting there, staring blankly at the wall, waiting.

Peter steps into the kitchen and clears his throat. Tony immediately turns and flashes him a smile. "Hey, kiddo. I ordered some Panda, assumed you'd be hungry."

Peter slips into the bar stool beside Tony and takes a bag. "Thanks."

He fishes out the orange chicken he smelled and opens it up. But he doesn't take a bite. His brow is pulled forward and he stares at the food. It isn't that he isn't hungry—he really, really is—but his mind is too busy remembering the conversation he and Tony had hours prior. How he had started to open up. How _freeing_ that felt.

"I told May you crashed, so she agreed you could spend the night if you wanted," Tony says. "But I can call Happy if—"

"Can I tell you something?" Peter cuts him off, still staring at his food.

Tony tilts his head. Nods. "Yeah, course. What's up?"

"I just . . ." Peter trails off, frustrated. "I was scared. For a long time." His eyes flicker to Tony's and sees that he's listening carefully. "That's why I didn't tell you what happened."

Tony shifts and leans his elbow on the counter. He doesn't press him to keep talking, but he doesn't need to.

"I was also embarrassed, ashamed . . ." Peter squeezes his eyes shut. Then, after a deep breath, he says carefully, "When I woke up, Beck, he . . . he lied to me. He said that we were, you know, married."

He holds his breath. Doesn't dare open his eyes.

The seconds are agonizingly silent.

"Married?" Tony eventually echoes, confused.

Peter purses his lips and nods. "He, uh, said that I was twenty-one. And that we lived in that cabin together. And that I was in a car accident, that's why I couldn't remember anything." His voice is tight and shaky. If his eyes weren't shut so tight, he's sure a tear might have leaked out.

"I don't . . ."

Peter opens his eyes, satisfied when no tears fall. Tony looks absolutely lost and disgusted all at once.

"I don't understand," he says, a line forming between his eyebrows. "Why would he say that? What was the point?"

Peter looks down at his hands. He picks at his cuticles silently.

All at once, horror fills Tony's face. "Peter."

Peter slowly looks up at Tony. He can only imagine how wrecked, scared, and tired he looks in his mentor's eyes.

Voice eerily level, Tony asks, "Did Beck make any sexual advances?"

Peter bites his lip and nods.

He hears the sharp inhale Tony takes.

"How— _fuck_ —How far did it go, kid?" Tony asks, his own voice breaking.

Peter looks away and tries to remain casual, as if he wasn't just admitting his dirtiest secret, as if he wasn't about to break down into sobs, as if he wasn't falling apart at the seams.

When he waits too long, Tony urges, "Peter, please, just—how far?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he whispers.

Tony, surprisingly, backs off. He turns and sets his head in his hands, breathing deeply. "Okay. Okay." He turns back Peter. He notices with a jolt that they both have unshed tears in their eyes. "I'm sorry that happened, and I'm sorry none of us—me, May, or Bruce—noticed. We should've, should've _asked_ —"

"I would have lied," Peter murmurs, "and besides, it wasn't even on your radar. You didn't think to look for it. It's fine."

"It's not _fine_."

Peter sighs. Pushes his bowl of orange chicken away. "Can we . . . can we stop talking about it, please?" His hands are shaking and he can feel a panic attack on the midst.

Tony looks more wrecked than Peter remembers ever seeing him. He looks worse than when he found him in that fucking cabin months ago.

"Yeah," Tony says, his voice just above a whisper, "Yeah, we can stop." Presses his hands together and rests his chin against them. "I'm here, though. If you want to talk some more."

Peter ducks his head so Tony can't see a tear finally breaking past the damn and slipping down his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lowkey gave myself a minor panic attack while writing this chapter somehow lmao
> 
> anyways i hope you're all enjoying the fast updates, i don't have as much homework as i thought i would (i mean it is still the first week of the semester but whatever)
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! please leave your comments below, i love reading them :)


	9. Air

Peter knows it's driving Tony crazy, that he doesn't know the full story and that Peter isn't telling him more than what he already has. But, Tony doesn't push him, and for that Peter is grateful. All Peter has to do is say that he doesn't want to talk about it, and although Tony gives him a sad look, he nods.

After their talk in the kitchen, Peter felt all the emotions from when he was in the cabin bubbling to the surface and took a hot shower to calm his nerves. The stinging of the water brought him back to the present.

_I'm not in the cabin. I'm at the compound. I'm not with Beck. I'm with Tony._

After the shower, Peter was ready to go right back to sleep, but Friday alerted him that Tony wanted him to come to the kitchen before bed. Anxiously, Peter ventured back out to the large kitchen where Tony was reheating the orange chicken Peter never ate. He motioned for Peter to sit before sliding him he dish.

"You haven't had anything since I picked you up from school," he said, and Peter hated the way the man sounded like he had aged ten years since their conversation. "You should eat."

"I'm not hungry," Peter said.

Tony frowned and glanced at his Rolex watch. "It's probably been at least eight hours since you've last eaten, and even if you didn't have a super-metabolism you should be at least a little hungry."

Peter sighed and picked up a fork. "Okay. Sorry."

His words just made Tony look sadder. "It's okay, buddy. Just want what's best for you."

Tony wanted to talk after Peter ate. When Peter declined, Tony didn't argue.

Now, Peter's lying in bed staring at the ceiling with his light off.

He knows he should probably talk to Tony instead of just dropping the fact that there was a time when he believed that he was married to Quentin Beck and allowed the man to be sexual with him without explaining anything. That's not fair.

And he knows that he should tell May. It isn't fair to open up to Tony and leave May in the dark, was it? But he doesn't want May to know. He knows his aunt; if he told her what had happened, she'd feel bad for snapping at him after the incident where Peter cursed his English teacher out. He doesn't want her to feel guilty. She doesn't deserve to feel guilty.

Everything's giving him a headache. And, unsurprisingly, making him anxious. With a groan, Peter sits up and pulls his knees to his chest. He closes his eyes as he leans his forehead against his knees, willing everything to just _stop_.

He's supposed to be sleeping, even though he is technically suspended at the moment and can't go to school tomorrow, but he can't. Not with his thoughts keeping him up. It isn't like as soon as one thought starts another starts; it's more like two start and don't end and then five more start and overlap while trying to be heard over all the other thoughts, which just makes everything in his head so loud. It's basically the noisy cafeteria at school dialed to eleven.

Despite being so tired, Peter is actually pretty okay with not getting any sleep. No sleep equals no nightmares, after all. He's just glad he didn't have any nightmares during his nap earlier.

Maybe that's another reason why he isn't falling asleep. Sure, he's still exhausted, but now he has a few extra hours of rest his body is running on. He doesn't really need to sleep tonight.

He thinks back to what May and Tony have been saying about how he needs to gain some weight back. It wouldn't hurt to hit the training room, right? Maybe he could start to gain some of his muscle back, too. Goodness knows he's been looking a little too soft to be Spider-Man. Even though he doesn't really see himself putting the shit on anytime soon, maybe getting back some of the strength Beck stole from him will help ease him back into the mindset and then everything will be back to normal again. He won't be disappointing May with his attitude or worry Tony with his weakness.

The hallway is dark as he passes through. As soon as he steps out of the kitchen into the living room to access the elevator, the back of his neck tingles. The next second, a voice comes from the couch that makes Peter cringe inwardly.

"Pete? What are you doing up?"

Slowly turning around, Peter finds Tony sitting on the couch with a mug of what he assumes is coffee and a remote in one hand. The TV screen is black and there aren't any lights on.

Tony's waiting for a response. Clearing his throat, Peter says, "I was, uh, just going to get some fresh air." His hands wring together in front of him.

Okay, so heading to the training room probably wouldn't have been too bad, but Peter didn't want to risk worrying Tony further. Getting fresh air is believable and harmless. No worries there. 

Still, Tony studies Peter, a line between his brows like he's thinking. "I couldn't sleep," he says, and Peter shifts his weight. "I was about to watch a movie, do you want to join me?"

It's hard not to think back to the cabin in that moment. It's dark, it's quiet, and it's just Peter and another, older man. If he squints just right, Tony's face morphs into Beck's. They've both got the chestnut town hair and facial hair and a muscular build and the TV is on and playing that stupid movie— _"I want you to lie to me just as sweetly as you know how for the rest of my life"—_ but the TV isn't even on yet and Peter's still standing by the elevator and Tony is still watching him. Waiting.

Waiting for what? What was the question again?

Peter's mind spins as he stumbles over his stuttered words, none of them making any sense.

Tony sits up with a frown. "It's okay, you don't have to. I was just offering."

Peter clamps his mouth shut and gives a jerky nod. "Okay. Sorry. Thanks, b-but I think—I think I'm going to go, go back to bed." For good measure, he nods again, then proceeds to turn and walk back to his bedroom and out of Tony's sight.

As soon as his door is shut, Peter locks it and presses his back against the door, sliding down to the floor to hug his knees into his chest.

His lungs burn. It's like he's submerged in a pond and every breath he takes is just heavy water and dense mud and it gets stuck in his throat and it soaks into his clothes, dragging him further and further down down down down—

It wasn't even a bad memory. Watching movies with Beck wasn't something Peter hated (at the time). Beck was always nice and cuddled with Peter and they ate popcorn and sometimes just talked during movie nights. Why would remembering that make him spiral?

 _Weak_ , Peter's mind spits out. _Weak and stupid. You're fine._

He doesn't forget that sometimes an adult scene would play during a movie and while Peter squinted uncomfortable Beck would tease him and sometimes touch him ( _hands hands hands_ _on him_ ) but that was only sometimes and it never escalated.

Now that the thought is in his head, though, Peter can't let it go. Dim images of Beck's smirk flash before his eyes and and phantom touches of his _hands_ ghost over his body like he's still there, _he's still in that fucking cabin oh gosh get out get out_ —

He slams his head back against the door and the images and sensations start to fade back into memories of the past. He hits his head again to speed up the process.

There's a feminine voice, but Peter can't decipher the words or who it is because the water of the pond he's drowning in clogs his ears and muffles everything. 

Distantly, he hears the doorknob above him twist but not budge, still locked. He's is still catching up to reality, so his mind automatically goes to Beck trying to get him. Peter scrambles away from the door and backs himself into the corner of the room, wide eyes plastered to the door as a deep voice— _it's Quentin, it's Quentin's voice, he's back_ —calls out, "Friday, override lock!"

Peter flinches violently when the door swings open, Quentin in the doorway.

 _But he can't be here_ , Peter's mind finally screams some logic. _He's in prison. He's not real._

Peter chokes on a sob and brings his head forward before reeling it back, the back of his head smacking the wall hard enough for the drywall to crack.

"Peter, stop!"

A hand touches him (Quentin's _hands hands hands_ all over him).

"Go away!" Peter cries out, squeezing his eyes shut and slamming his head against the wall again. The imaginary man from his nightmares curses and tries pulling him away from the wall. Shrieking, Peter kicks out and struggles to get away and get him _off_ like he should have months ago. "Go away! Get the hell off of me!"

Why does it feel so real? This is more than just the phantom touches and sensations, this is—this is _real_. He can feel the callouses against his bare arms and he can feel his body moving as it's dragged from his safe corner and he can see the man blocking the light from the hall.

"Stop hurting yourself and I'll let you go!" the voice shouts back, but . . . that's not right, it isn't angry. It's concerned and frantic.

"You're _not_ _real!"_ Peter shouts, his eyes glistening with tears. "Stop tormenting me!"

The hands suddenly disappear. Peter instantly scrambles back to fit himself into the corner where there is a new a head-sized hole in the wall. He hides his face in his knees and tries to suck in some air into his burning lungs.

"You think I'm . . ."

Why is the voice still here? The _hands_ left, why hasn't the fucking voice?

He's shaking as he tries to even his breathing.

"Pete, look at me."

"You're not real."

"I'm not Beck, I'm—"

"Go _away,"_ Peter hisses, clamping his hands over his ears.

"Peter, you've got to listen to me and just breathe—"

"Go away!" He tries to throw his head back into the wall again, but a hand slides in between and catches his head of curls. Peter gasps and frantically pushes the hand away.

"Sorry, sorry, I know you don't want to be touched, bud, but you _have_ to stop doing that," the voice urges.

"Don't touch me."

"I won't as long as you stop trying to give yourself a concussion."

Peter knows he shouldn't be reasoning with an imaginary voice, but he really doesn't want the grimy hands to touch him again. So, he just curls up in a ball and calms himself down by digging his nails into his arms.

After a few minutes, his lungs finally start to fill with air. He struggles to maintain an even breathing pattern, but it's better than drowning.

With the influx of oxygen, his mind begins to clear and he loosens his grip on his arms.

"There we go, kid. Keep breathing."

Peter stills. With shame and embarrassment filling his stomach, Peter realizes that the voice wasn't imaginary at all. And the hands—the most realistic ones, that is—weren't ghosts of Beck's twisted actions.

Shit.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, just Tony," Tony assures when Peter tenses. "Open those big browns and look at me, kiddo."

Peter keeps his head buried in his arms and knees and whispers, "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for. Just look at me, please. I promise I'm not that sick bastard."

Peter flinches but slowly looks up anyways. Tony's sitting against the wall beside him, legs splayed out in front of him with his hands clasped in his lap. His eyes are watching Peter warily.

"See? Not gonna hurt you."

Peter nods and puts his head back in his arms. "Sorry f-for freaking out. Stupid."

"It's not stupid," Tony argues softly. "Just— _jeez_ , kid, you can't hit your head like that. You're going to give yourself brain damage."

Peter just sniffs. He can't bring himself to lift his head again, his body suddenly exhausted and his head throbbing in pain.

"Friday, lights up to 50%."

The dark room slowly lightens. Peter hears Tony shift closer and then hears him suck in a breath between his teeth.

"Can I take a look at your head? Is that okay?"

Peter wordlessly nods.

He feels a gossamer touch pushing some of his hair at the back of his head out of the way as the cool air hits his scalp. After a few seconds, the touch retreats and Tony shifts back to his spot a couple feet from where Peter's still curled into himself.

"You're bleeding pretty bad, Pete. You okay with heading to the medbay?"

"I heal fast," he murmurs, his voice muffled. "I'm fine."

"We need to at least clean it up so it doesn't get infected," Tony reasons, not at all pushy. "Your bathroom has clean washrags in the cabinet, you want to get that head of yours cleaned up in there?"

With a sigh, Peter agrees. He just wants to go to sleep. "Okay."

Tony keeps his distance as Peter sets a hand on the wall and stands on his wobbly knees. He avoids Tony's gaze as he stumbles into the en-suite.

He stands there, his hands wringing together, while Tony rummages trough the cabinets for the washrags. The man dampens one before turning to Peter and suggesting he hop onto the counter.

Peter sits at the edge, his legs hanging off, and turns his head so that Tony has access to the wound that's already starting to clot and scab over. Gently smoothing his hair aside, Tony dabs around the area to clear it of the thick blood. He combs it out of his hair and has to rinse the rag out in the sink a few times, but Peter actually finds himself relaxing somewhat. He keeps his eyes down and watches his fingers as he anxiously picks at his cuticles.

Tony's so patient. He doesn't ask Peter any questions while he works, and he doesn't touch him, only his hair and scalp.

As Tony's rinsing the rag out for the third time, Peter says, "Beck and I used to watch movies together."

Tony stills, but only for a second, then acts like he never froze and squeezes out the red from the rag as it drains down the sink. He doesn't say anything, allowing for Peter to continue.

"It freaked me out. It shouldn't have, because it . . . I usually liked watching movies with him, sometimes. It was a nice break from everything and . . . he was nice." Peter's brow pulls forward in frustration. "He was nice to me a lot. He didn't—I think he actually _loved_ me."

The bathroom is silent. Tony's staring at the blood draining down the sink with an unreadable gaze and Peter's trying to make sense of the jumbled mess in his head.

"He didn't love you," Tony says, his voice harsh. Peter flinches slightly at the tone. "He kidnapped you, manipulated you, used you, and molested you. That isn't—that's the _furthest_ thing from love."

"I—"

"Beck is a sick man, he doesn't know the first thing about love," Tony continues and looks at Peter sharply. "He kidnapped you to feel in control and to feel a sense of power."

Peter looks away. Why do Tony's words cut him deep? He hates Beck, he really does, but . . . it was comforting, in a way, to think that the man actually loved him. That's why he kidnapped him in the first place, right? He wanted him?

"He told me—"

"He lied to you, Peter," Tony cuts him off. "He fed you lies every single day for two months."

"I _know_ that, Tony," Peter cuts back sharply, not noticing the way he called him by the first name for the first time. He glares at him as he says, "I got my memories back, remember? I know he lied and I hate him for it, for every _fucking_ thing he did, I—" Peter stops. Shakes his head.

Regret fills Tony's eyes. He sighs and runs fresh water over the rag in his hand before leaning against the counter. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . to make you upset."

Peter shrugs but keeps his eyes downcast. "It's fine."

"Nothing about this is fine." Tony continues washing out the blood. Most of it's out, now. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to make things better."

"Join the club," Peter says, his voice monotone as the joke falls flat.

Tony frowns at that but silently continues washing his hair. Once all the blood is out and he twists the last of the pink water out of the rag, he sets the washcloth aside and stands in front of Peter. The boy reluctantly looks up.

"I know you probably don't want to think about it," Tony says, and dread already fills Peter's stomach at his words, "but we need to know our next steps."

"Next steps?"

Tony nods. "Are you going to tell May? You know, about the whole . . . marriage and assault thing?" It looks like it physically pain him to say those words.

Peter runs the back of his neck. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking about it earlier, before you saw me in the living room earlier, but I . . ." He shrugs. "I don't know. I don't think either her or I could handle that conversation."

He purses his lips and Peter waits for his two cents on what he should do, but then Tony just crosses his arms and says, "Okay."

Peter blinks. "It's okay that I don't tell her?"

"I mean, if you're not ready for it, then I don't think you should force it," Tony explains. "Did you feel forced to tell me?"

"No," Peter says with a frown. "I just—I felt like I needed to get it off my chest, and you . . . I mean, I trust you."

He nods. "See? I'm sure you'll feel ready to tell her sometime. In the meantime, you don't have to feel guilty about it. It's yours to share."

He hasn't thought about it like that.

Tony smiles at Peter's acceptance, but then his face turn serious again. "Okay, so we need to talk about the whole head-banging thing, because that's less negotiable."

Shame burns Peter's cheeks. Before he can defend himself or apologize, Tony continues.

"Have you done that before?"

Peter considers lying. He considers just saying it was the first time and that it won't happen again, but the way Tony's been by his side the whole time and he hasn't judged him for his little episode earlier makes him admit sheepishly, "Yeah."

"Is it something you do often?"

Peter nods again, picking at his cuticles. "I don't know why. It just . . . helps."

Tony pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "You were caught up in a flashback earlier, right? And you were hitting your head to try to pull yourself out?

"I'm sorry about the hole in the wall," Peter murmurs. "I'll—I can, like, pay for repairs—"

"I think you're forgetting you're talking to a billionaire, kid," Tony says. "I'll take care of it, don't worry about it. I just want to know if you get flashbacks, panic attacks, nightmares a lot. If I remember correctly, you told me multiple times that you experienced none of those, but now that I know that isn't true, I'd like to know what you do experience." At Peter's hesitation, Tony adds, "I just want to help you."

He sighs. Looks at his feet hanging from the counter. "All of the above."

Tony frowns but nods. "Okay. Do you know your triggers?"

Confusion crosses Peter's face and he looks up. "What?"

"Like, earlier, I'm assuming the movie thing triggered you into your flashback/panic attack ten minutes ago. Do you know what else tends to trigger you, or even just makes you uncomfortable?"

Peter looks away again, feeling Tony's eyes on him. "Um, I guess . . . like, anything that has to do with, like, sex?" he murmurs. His face is hot. "And, like, touching, but only sometimes? And pancakes and bacon, but I told you that earlier."

Tony nods. "Okay. Anything else?"

Peter bites down on his lip in thought. " _The Great Gatsby._ He . . . we watched that a lot. Together. Feeling trapped also makes me uncomfortable, you know, because I wasn't allowed to leave the cabin at all." He doesn't mention that he hates the pet names baby, babe, darling, and princess, but he assumes that won't come up at all. "Yeah. I think that's mostly it."

A moment of silence hangs between the two. Then, Tony breaks it by asking softly, "Would it be alright if I hugged you, Pete? You can say no."

Peter meets Tony's eyes. Instead of responding, he slips off the counter and steps into Tony's arms. The man's arms wrap around Peter securely, but not like they're trapping him there. It's more like a shield to keep him safe.

And, for the first time in a long time, Peter actually does feel safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, thanks again for the support :) Writing this story has been basically my crutch for the past week. I guess I've just been having a hard time transitioning into my second semester of college even though my first semester was an absolute dream. My eating disorder kind of relapsed and I've been struggling for no good reason, but reading everyone's comments has seriously been brightening up my day! I love you all and thank you all so so much for reading and supporting this story. 
> 
> If you have any predictions, any tropes, any scenes, any critiques, or anything else you want to see in this story, feel free to drop some ideas bc I've been writing this story one chapter at a time and would appreciate the input! If you don't have any ideas or anything of the sort, feel free to just tell me what you think of the story so far! 
> 
> Thanks!


	10. Clean

The call comes after Peter returns to his room after lunch. He's sitting at his desk on his laptop when he hears Tony's phone ring and stills. Pausing the music he had been playing, Peter turns and listens as Tony picks up the call.

Tony doesn't even have the chance to say hello before May's voice on the other end says, " _Just suspended, he's not expelled."_

"For how long?"

_"The rest of this week and next week. He has a friend who said he'd bring Peter his homework while he's gone."_

"Good. That's . . . a relief. I was beginning to wonder if that school was smart enough not to let go of their brightest student."

 _"They don't consider him their brightest,_ ," May says, and Peter's heart sinks at that. " _He's—he's been getting into trouble lately. Who's to say this won't happen again?"_

"I don't think it will. Pete's just been adjusting," Tony defends Peter.

"Adjusting to what?"

Tony hesitates slightly before saying in a duh-tone, "Uh, being kidnapped and drugged so he lost his memories and then suddenly being thrusted back into his life? This happened not even a full month ago, May."

_"But Peter usually doesn't adjust like this. After Ben died, he was always crying or clinging to my side. The same goes for when his parents died. He didn't act out, he was sad and clingy."_

"He's a teenager now," Tony argues. "He isn't always going to react the same. And besides, this is vastly different from a loved one passing."

_"I guess, but—I don't know, Tony. This just isn't Peter."_

"Like I said, he's still recovering."

_"You heard him; nothing that bad even happened. I mean, besides being kidnapped and wiped of his memories temporarily."_

"I think you're forgetting that when we found him—when _I_ found him—he was underweight and littered with bruises."

_"This isn't a competition, Tony."_

"Never said it was."

May sighs. " _Okay. When's he coming home?"_

Tony pauses. "I'll ask him."

_"He's not staying the night again."_

"Why not?"

 _"Because I said so, Tony!"_ May exclaims before taking a breath _. "I'm his aunt, okay? I want to see him. And he can't be hanging out at the Avengers compound after punching a kid like—like some reward."_

They're fighting again. Over him. Peter runs a hand through his hair and exhales deeply. He hates it whenever they argue because it's 100% of the time hi fault.

"Can I at least ask him when he wants to go home?"

" _Tony_ ," May sighs, impatient.

Tony doesn't get the hint. "I'm going to ask him." He hangs up.

Peter turns back to his laptop and pretends like he wasn't just eavesdropping on the private phone conversation when Tony knocks on his door.

"Come in."

The door opens, Tony peering his head in. "Hey, kiddo. Guess who's not expelled?"

"I'm assuming that would be me," Peter says, turning around and sitting forward on his elbows.

Tony leans against the doorframe. "When did you want to head back home? May probably wants her Peter-time, but you're more than welcome to crash here while you're suspended if you'd prefer that. I know it's . . . complicated."

Peter looks away. That's one way to put it. "I can go now, if she wants me back at the apartment."

"I'm not asking what you think she wants, I'm asking what you want."

Peter pulls his bottom lip between his teeth in thought. On one hand, he knows that May wants him back at the apartment, he heard he say it herself. However, he isn't sure if he wants to be back there. She doesn't know about what happened, she just thinks Peter's been acting out. Which, in a way, is right. He has been misbehaving and making it hard on her lately. But would being there only make that worse or would staying at the compound worsen it?

"Well," Tony says, bringing Peter's eyes up to his, "while you're deciding, I have a question."

Peter's stomach does an anxious flip. "O-Okay."

Tony looks away, sighs, then looks back. "Okay, less of a question and more of a suggestion. I'd like it if you'd get looked over, kind of like a check-up, before you go."

Peter blinks. A check-up? That's usually for when he's hiding an injury from patrol and somehow Tony found out. "Why?"

"Just to make sure you don't have any infections or anything," Tony says, his voice far more casual than his expression. His words are cool yet his features are tight.

Infections? He doesn't— _Oh_. An embarrassed blush dusts his pale cheeks. Sexually transmitted infections.

"I-I don't have any, like, symptoms," Peter stammers.

Tony's eyes are soft. "A lot of people don't experience symptoms."

Peter presses his lips into a straight line and looks down, ashamed. Again, he wonders how he had let Beck _do_ this to him. He's so gullible, so weak.

"Okay," Peter says, but his voice is weird so he clears his throat before repeating, "Okay, I'll—I'll get checked-out."

•

Peter isn't sure what Tony tells May, but at dinner Tony tells Peter that he can stay over for one more night and that the exam is ready whenever he is. Not wanting to push it off and deal with prolonged anxiety (or more anxiety than usual), Peter decides to go through with the medical exam after dinner. Bruce offers to do it, but Peter requests a doctor he doesn't know (a female one, preferably) and meets a lovely woman by the name Dr. Hershel. She looks to be in her late thirties and has a stripe of gray hair at the front, the rest of her hair dark. She wears a kind, patient smile and moves slowly yet confidently. After assuring Tony and Bruce that he's comfortable (or as comfortable as one can be in his situation), they leave the room for Dr. Hershel to begin the examination.

It has been around a month since Peter came back, so they skip a lot of the steps. Peter would rather forget about the whole thing, really, and thankfully it isn't hard to. His hands shake and his mind races the entire time and he's so caught up with fearing the worst that he doesn't even realize it's over until Dr. Hershel gently taps his knee and smiles and says, "All done, you did great."

Bruce is the one who reviews all the results. As much as Peter likes Dr. Hershel, he'd rather she didn't examine his blood work and discover that he's Spider-Man.

Peter and Tony wait together while Bruce gathers everything. Peter's knee bounces the entire time, his nerves shot. Tony remains collected, and every few minutes he'll reassure Peter that everything's fine, that this is just a precaution.

Peter keeps thinking back to the examination. Before it really started, Dr. Hershel asked some questions that Peter wouldn't have answered, had anyone else asked them.

_Did the abuser touch you? Where? Did he make you touch him? Where? Did he orally penetrate you? Did he anally penetrate you? Did he penetrate you with anything else, such as an object? How many times did this occur?_

It was all things Peter never wants to talk or think about again. They had to take a few breathers during the questions before they could actually move on to the physical portion of the check-up. Everything he said just felt dirty on his tongue. He considers leaving Tony in the room to wait by himself to go brush his teeth, but before he can make a decision the door opens and Bruce walks in.

Peter sinks in his seat. Tony, on the other hand, straightens.

"I took a look at your blood work," Bruce explains even though Peter was already told this. "You don't have HIV, thankfully, and the rest of your results conclude that you don't have any other infections or diseases."

A wave of relief washes over the room. As Tony relaxes into his chair, Peter realizes the man was worried the whole time and had just been good at playing it cool.

"I would also like to apologize, Peter," Bruce says, making Peter's eyes flicker up to his questionably. The man looks regretful. "It's my fault you weren't properly evaluated when you came back. I was the main one in charge of your physical recovery, there's no excuses for why I neglected noticing. I'm sorry."

Peter shrugs and wrings his hands together. "It's okay. I didn't—I never said anything, so . . ."

"You shouldn't have had to," Bruce sighs.

From Peter's left, Tony adds, "You didn't know who we were for a while, there was no reason to trust us with something like this."

Peter shrugs again and shuffles his feet. "It all turned out okay."

"It's not the end of this," Bruce says, eliciting a frown from Peter. "Psychologically, I mean. Tony said you've been having flashbacks and nightmares, is that correct?"

Peter nods sheepishly. "They're not that bad."

"If it's affecting your sleep, then it's something we should fix," Bruce reasons. "I can synthesize some sleeping pills and see how they work if you'd like?"

Peter gnaws on his lip. Glancing at Tony, he says, "If you could, I'd appreciate it. But you don't have to—"

"It's the least I could do, Peter," Bruce says, smiling softly. "Before you go, is there anything else you think you should mention?"

"I have a question, actually," Peter murmurs.

"Go ahead."

From the corner of his eye, Peter sees Tony studying him. He ducks his head and asks, "Do I . . . Do I have to, like, give a statement? To the police? I don't really know how this stuff works."

Bruce looks to Tony, who says, "Beck's already locked up for life. There's no pressure to give a statement if you don't want to."

 _Good_. Peter swallows dryly and nods. "Okay. Okay." He takes a deep breath through his nose. "Thank you, Dr. Banner for this. You didn't have to."

Bruce smiles warmly. "Anything for you, Pete. I'll get started on that sleeping medicine, you can call me—or tell Tony to call me—if you ever need anything. I don't know if you were thinking of therapy anything soon, but if you ever want to look for some options, I have some connections."

Honestly? Peter hasn't even thought about therapy once. And he doesn't think he'll think about it again. The idea of repeating what he told Dr. Hershel to a shrink is just nauseating.

Tony notices Peter's internal struggle and sends Bruce a smile. "Thanks, doc. We'll keep in touch."

Once Bruce leaves and Tony and Peter make their way back to Tony's quarters, Peter asks, "Are you going to make me see a therapist?"

" _Make you_?" Tony echoes with a frown. "I'm not going to _make you_ do anything you don't want to. If you're ready for therapy, then I'll call the doc up and set everything up for you. But you may never decide to do that, which is also fine." There's a pause. "Down the line, though, I think it might be helpful. That's just my two-cents."

Peter notices the spark of hope in Tony's eyes. Not wanting to dim it, he says, "Maybe," while his mind says, _Never_. 

•

Peter doesn't want to tell May, but he also wants to. (If that makes sense.)

It's hard, even when he's back at the apartment and it's just them and there's opportunities for him to say something but his words fizzle out into nothing or his throat tightens or his brain malfunctions or his stomach lurches before he can utter a single word.

He knows that Tony said he didn't have to tell her anything, but it just doesn't seem fair to leave her in the dark. She deserves to know why her nephew keeps fucking up.

During dinner, Peter pushes his food around his plate, mentally rehearsing the words.

_Hey, guess what, Aunt May? You know Beck? Yeah, he convinced me that we were married, and then we had sex a few times._

He can't just _say_ that, no matter how truthful it may be. But how is he supposed to tell his aunt that he's no longer the innocent boy she used to love?

"Are you going to eat or are you going to keep playing with your food?"

May's voice tugs Peter from his thoughts. He blinks and looks up, his eyes catching hers from across the table.

"What?"

May sighs and pushes her glasses up her nose. "I asked if you were going to actually eat the food I made you or just play with it. What ever happened to your teenager appetite?"

"Oh. Sorry." Peter sheepishly returns his gaze to his food. He cuts the pasta noodles with his fork but doesn't take a bite. His stomach is still doing flips from the thought of telling May what happened.

May sits back in her seat with a heavy breath. Peter feels her eyes on him, studying him. He decides to take a bite of the pasta dish.

"I don't know what you need from me," she says after a few minutes. "I'm trying to understand you, but I—I just don't know what's going on with you, Peter."

He slowly chews the pasta in his mouth before swallowing. This is his shot, he could just say it all right now and then May would understand and wouldn't be mad at him anymore.

 _Or_ , Peter's brain taunts, _she could be disgusted with you or be disappointed that you didn't stop it._

But Tony isn't disappointed.

 _He pities you_.

He isn't disgusted.

_Isn't he?_

Peter leans his head in his hands, the heels of his palms pressing against his closed eyes. "I'm sorry, Aunt May. I'm just . . . I'm just having trouble sleeping. Been tired. That's why I've been weird lately."

Technically not a lie. It's just not the whole truth, but it's something. It's better than nothing.

May's gaze softens. When Peter lays his hands on the table, she reaches out and takes one, not noticing the slight flinch it elicits. With a firm squeeze, May says, "That's okay, just try to go to bed at a good time tonight. Do you want some of my melatonin supplements?"

Instead of saying that they don't do anything for his metabolism, Peter smiles and says, "That's okay, but thanks."

That night, when he's lying in his bed, he wishes he had just gotten it over with and told her everything. 

•

Ned comes over on Friday with all of Peter's homework from the week he missed. When he knocks on the front door, May happily opens it and hugs Ned and directs him to Peter's room.

Usually Peter and Ned sit on his bed and do homework together, but Peter's hands are shaky and his heart thumps weirdly so he sits at his desk while Ned perches himself on the bed.

Ned talks a mile a minute while Peter evaluated his work load. The boy talks about his newly developed crush on Betty, Flash's bandaged broken nose, a case of mono that has been going around, a stupid assignment his English teacher assigned him, and anything and everything else that pops into his mind. Peter half-listens to it all while he begins a worksheet.

He freezes when Ned says, "Oh, and apparently Cindy and Max, you know, _did it_."

Peter tightens his grip on his mechanical pencil. "Gross, man. That isn't anyone's business whether or not they did anything."

Ned frowns. "I know, I was just catching you up on all the drama. Everyone's been talking about it."

"They shouldn't be," Peter mutters, going back to filling out the worksheet.

Ned shifts uncomfortably. "Okay, I guess so." His eyes light up. "Hey, you haven't answered any of my texts about the fight. Flash has been telling everyone that you landed a lucky hit that hit his nose just at the right angle for it to fracture, but Michelle says that she saw it and that it looked like a solid hook—"

"I don't want to talk about it," Peter cuts him off, sharper than he intended, and instantly softens when he sees the hurt flash across Ned's face. "Sorry, Ned. I didn't—life has just been crazy, you know? Didn't mean to snap at you."

Ned shrugs. "It's okay." He pauses. "Does this have something to do with you being gone?"

Peter purses his lips. "Yeah. It does." He turns away. "But I'd really rather not talk about it right now, if that's okay."

"Of course, yeah," Ned instantly agrees. "Hey, my mom finally got a Disney+ account for our family. Do you want to watch _The Mandalorian_ after you do some homework?"

A small smile touches Peter's lips. "Sounds good." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys feel, as readers, that this story is getting boring or my writing isn't very good as this story progresses? Whenever I write a book I always feel like it slowly declines quality wise and I really hope that isn't happening with this one so please please give me your honest input!!! Love you all!!!


	11. Absence

**Where Is Spider-Man?**

* * *

_The Queens superhero known for his bright red-and-blue suit and good deeds still hasn't been seen since early June of this year. Many speculate this could simply be Spidey taking a break, but others worry the vigilante is in trouble. New York City native Kevin McMains said, "I think he's dead. Must've went up against a bad guy he couldn't handle on his own, he doesn't have back-up like those Avengers do."_

_McMains wasn't the only one we spoke to who brought up the Avengers. Sarah Brown, an elementary teacher in Midtown, said, "[Spider-Man] saved my students last fall during a field trip to the zoo. If he's in trouble, the Avengers better be looking for him."_

_"Spider-Man helped my Nana when she had a heart attack behind the wheel," Joe Rodriguez told our reporters. "I also know a guy who he talked out of suicide. If the Avengers aren't out there busting their asses looking for him, I'll do it myself."_

_However, there were some individuals who didn't suspect anything to be wrong. We spoke with Manhattan resident Tyreece Young who said, "[Spider-Man]'s probably just on vacation, the guy deserves it after all he's done for us." Unlike Young, Richard Smith does not share the sentiment. According to Smith, "Spider-Man needs to get off his lazy ass. I'll tell you what, he's probably a millennial, and you can quote me on that. They're all the same, they all think they can laze around while the world around them still spins. Where was he when that apartment building caught fire in July?"_

_Out of everyone our reporters interviewed, Smith was the only one who showed any bitterness towards the Queens hero. Everyone else expressed their support for Spider-Man and wished him well._

_Spider-Man, wherever you are, New York misses you._

•

[Two women on screen. One is holding a microphone with _Channel 18 News_ plastered on the front. She has short blonde hair, pale skin, and is wearing a pink blouse. The other woman is standing to her right and has dark skin with blue braids, wearing a black sweatshirt. They're standing outside on the sidewalk with Times Square in the background.]

Woman #1: What has Spider-Man done for you?

Woman #2: How much time do you have?

[Both women laugh.]

Woman #2: Well, it's funny you ask because he actually saved me once.

Woman #1: Really?

Woman #2: Oh yeah, it happened a while ago, before he got the cool suit, so he was still wearing those red and blue rags. I was walking home from a party me and my friends went to when this car rolled up beside me and a guy came out, tellin me he was an Uber driver and that he'd drive me home for free. I knew something fishy was goin on, but I was drunk off my *** and couldn't do nothing except scream for help when he grabbed me by the arm. That's when Spider-Man came outta nowhere and webbed him up and called the cops.

Woman #1: Wow, that sounds terrifying.

Woman #2: Oh, I almost **** my pants, but Spider-Man calmed me down and waited with me til the cops came. I won't ever forget that.

•

**Colin** @cforthewin  
idk where spider-man is at but i hope he's ok   
#WeMissYouSpidey

 **Jackie** @hxrrystylxs  
Remember that time Spider-Man stopped a plane theft and redirected it while it was crashing so it didn't kill thousands of people??  
#WeMissYouSpidey

 **Odella** @kitkatlover  
love to see this hashtag trending globally  
#WeMissYouSpidey

 **Spidey's #1 Fan** @spooderman  
Spider-Man is and always will be the best hero to ever grace our earth periodt  
#WeMissYouSpidey

•

The same question seems to be playing on everyone's mind, so Peter can't get mad when May turns to him and asks, "Where's Spider-Man?"

Okay, so Peter can get mad, and he does, but he shouldn't. It's a valid question. Peter used to gush to May how much fun he had being Spider-Man and talked animatedly about what he did (sparing the scary and dangerous stuff, of course). He used to argue with May to try to push back the strict 10:00 PM patrol curfew to _at least_ midnight. Spider-Man was Peter's identity.

Now, though, he can't even look at the suit—the suit Tony recreated once he realized Beck got rid of Peter's old one—without feeling a surge of anxiety and undeserving pump through his veins. Anxiety because what if someone else kidnaps him while patrolling, and undeserving because someone as weak and gullible as himself shouldn't be allowed to have that responsibility.

Heroes save people. They're there when no one else is, they're strong and brave and reliable. They use tactics to decide what the best game plan is and then execute it to save everyone and defeat the bad guy. Heroes don't need saving, they don't let themselves get nabbed off the streets, they aren't gullible or easily tricked, they don't just _lie there_ and _let it happen._

May can't understand that, though. She couldn't even if Peter tried to explain it all. So, he just shrugs and says, "Working on it."

It probably would have been more fitting to say that he is _avoiding_ it, but tomato-tomahto.

That night, after May starts falling asleep on the couch watching _The Bachelor_ while Peter watches from the floor, he's lying in bed but can't fall asleep. Not only do the thoughts of Spider-Man and all the lives he isn't saving while being lazy plague his mind, but of course his body has to think it's being spooned by Beck. The anxieties of his alter ego are enough without the tone of weight that press against his chest as his mind tricks him into thinking he isn't alone in bed. It happens sometimes, but it's an easy fix: sleep on the floor.

It sounds kind of stupid, but Peter doesn't mind. He spends most nights in bed, but sometimes—for absolutely no good reason—his spider-sense goes on high alert and convinces him that Beck is lying with him. Sometimes he can feel the man's chest rising and falling against his back methodically, and sometimes his hair brushed against his neck like he's breathing against him.

But it's nothing. It's just Peter freaking out over literally nothing.

Tonight just so happens to be another one of those nights. Peter's laying his pillow on the floor next to his bed when his phone starts ringing. He quickly fumbles for it before it can wake May up and answers it without looking at the caller ID.

"Hello?"

" _Hey, kid. Figured you wouldn't be sleeping yet,"_ Tony's voice filters through. " _I'm assuming you've been seeing everything that's been on the news about our spider pal?"_

Peter nods even though he can't see him. "Yeah, I have a whole hashtag trending and everything. Kinda weird." He pauses. "If you're calling to ask when I'm putting the suit back on, I don't—I don't really have a good answer for you."

 _"I was actually just going to ask if you were thinking about it and where you stand,"_ Tony replies. " _Don't let the media pressure you into suiting up sooner than you're ready."_

"Yeah, but they're dragging the Avengers into it now," Peter groans, sitting on the floor and leaving his head back against his bed. One of his arms slings over a bent knee, his other leg splayed in front of him.

" _Then let the Avengers worry about it."_

"But Spider-Man isn't the Avengers' responsibility," Peter argues, growing frustrated. He picks at the fabric of his pajama pants. "It's not fair that you guys have to deal with the problems I'm causing."

_"You haven't caused any—"_

"I really don't want to talk about it anymore," Peter half-groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache arises. "Aunt May was asking earlier and I just don't know what to tell her because I don't even know the answer myself."

Tony pauses. " _Okay, that's fair. How are you feeling about going back to school tomorrow?"_

"Dreading it," Peter blurts bitterly before he can stop himself. He quickly adds, "But it's fine, I'm caught up on all of my assignments." _All of them but English,_ that is, but he doesn't say that. "And Ned said there was a new exchange student from Norway, so I'm looking forward to see if they're in any of my classes."

_"They've got cool accents in Norway."_

"I don't think I've ever heard a Norwegian accent before."

" _Me either, but I'm assuming it's cool_ ," Tony says, and Peter can't help but crack a small smile. " _Hey, it's getting late, I should probably let you get some of that sleep growing children like yourself need."_

It's meant to be a joke, of course, but Peter can't find it in himself to laugh or smile. He hasn't really felt like a kid in a while, and the thought of hanging up and being alone in his room just makes his heart feel empty. Achingly empty.

Peter glances down at the pillow and blanket on the floor beside him and sighs. "Okay, yeah."

_"What's wrong?"_

Peter frowns and lifts his head from leaning on the bed behind him. "What do you mean?"

_"I mean, you sounded disappointed. I don't have to hang up."_

"N-No, that's okay," Peter hurries to assure. "I don't want to waste your time or keep you up, it's fine."

" _I'm probably not going to sleep anytime soon anyways,_ " Tony replies easily. " _And talking to you isn't wasting my time, it's investing in the future generation._ " There's a pause and a slight shuffle from Tony's end. " _And not to be all mushy or whatever, but I like talking to you, Underoos. You're a good kid."_

Instead of arguing that last point, Peter lets Tony be "mushy" and says quietly, "Thanks."

_"No problem. So, do you want to hear about how I convinced Rhodey to replace milk with water in his cereal this morning?"_

"Is that even a question? Of course I do."

•

Peter's first day back after his suspension is, in a word, weird. In three words, it's weird as hell.

Students are staring at him as he walks down the hall to his locker. He tries not to pay too much attention to it, thinking that he's just being paranoid, but then he hears the whispers being exchanged between the onlookers.

"I thought he was expelled."

"He's basically a nerd-turned-bad-boy."

"Do you think Flash is gonna get revenge?"

Peter ducks his head and tunes it all out. That's basically what he has to do during his classes, too; someone in the back will always lean over and whisper something to their friend, thinking that Peter can't hear. Which he shouldn't be able to, had he not been bitten by a radioactive spider a few years ago.

He's just not used to this kind of attention. Or any attention, really. He had always been the student that blended into the background and raised his hand in class every once in a while. Sometimes Flash will shine a spotlight on him to tease him, but even that usually only lasts for a few seconds before he becomes invisible again. For the longest time, Peter hated being invisible. But this—having people whisper about him and staring at him—is worse.

By the time lunch rolls around, Peter just wants to turn around and yell at everyone to mind their own damn business. But, he doesn't. That would be another strike on his record. The fact that he even has a record now is just disappointing.

Thankfully, Ned is able to bring a sense of peace within the storm. He pulls out his phone and plays a game of Among Us with Peter, and in between games slides a granola bar over to the smaller boy. Peter rolls his eyes but takes it despite eating more than half of his school lunch.

Peter's mood plunges again when he shows up to English. He avoids his teacher's gaze, guilt at cussing her out that one time still eating him up, and slides into his seat silently. Once the class actually starts, the teacher calls for everyone to get their copy of _The Great Gatsby_ out and discuss the chapters they were assigned for homework. Peter didn't do it, obviously, and he doesn't want to listen to what the class has to say, so he tunes it out and just watches the clock all period. When the bell rings, Peter is ready to bolt out of that room; however, before he can get very far, the teacher asks him if he has the homework he missed to turn in.

He doesn't, so he just smiles guiltily and says, "Sorry, I didn't get it finished yet. I'll have it turned in soon."

Which, you know, is a lie.

He's so sure that the teacher bought it, though, so after school when he's on his laptop at the dining table and May comes home from work with a scowl, he's caught off guard. Apparently the teacher called May to inform her of Peter's F in the class.

"You had all week to do the homework," May scolds. "There's no reason why you couldn't have gotten it done."

"It was a lot," he argues weakly.

May scoffs and holds a hand to her forehead. "It's _English_ , Peter! You work with Tony Stark and you can do complex physics equations with your eyes closed. There's no excuse for literally failing a class."

Peter looks away and offers a meek shrug. "It's . . . hard."

"It's _hard_?" May echoes, disbelief coating her tone like candy. "English class isn't _hard_ , quantum physics is, and yet you seem to have a good understanding of that."

Peter sputters for a response. "I'm trying."

"You're not _trying_ ," May argues.

"You don't know that," Peter snaps, his gaze gardening while his heart shatters.

"Yes I do! I know you're not even trying, because you are _so_ much smarter than an F in English class!"

The chair under Peter scrapes against the tiled floor as he shoots up to his feet. "Maybe I'm not!"

"Don't say that!" May shouts back, furious.

Peter's hands are shaking. "What, that I'm not smart enough for English class when I'm literally failing?" He throws his arms up. "I have an F. Big fucking deal!"

May's face falls gravely serious. She points an accusing finger at him. "Watch your tongue, I didn't raise you to use that type of language."

"Apparently you didn't raise me well enough, then," Peter snaps.

"I wasn't even supposed to raise you in the first place!"

Peter stills, the only sound being his and May's heavy breaths. Everything else in the apartment freezes.

Regret fills May's eyes, but before she can open her mouth to apologize, Peter's turning and taking long strides to his room. He slams the door shut behind him so hard the walls shake a little. Wasting no time, Peter swipes his web-shooters from his nightstand and clasps them around his wrists for the first time in months, then jumps out the window into the dark evening.

His mind is racing too fast to think about how careless he's being for swinging in public without the mask or suit, even when it's dark. He isn't sure where he's going, all he knows is that he needs to be free.

It doesn't surprise him when he ends up at the compound an hour later.

Friday wordlessly unlocks his room's window and allows him to crawl inside the dark room. When he lands on his feet, he says, "Lights to 30% brightness."

His voice is rough and weird and makes him realize that he's been crying. He wipes the tears chilled by the breeze off his cheeks and threads his fingers in his wind-blown hair.

 _What have you done?_ his mind hisses. _You've ruined everything, May hates you. You're such a disappointment._

"Stop," he whispers brokenly, pacing the length of his room as his nails dig into his scalp.

_You're just a used-up toy. You were better off with Beck, he actually wanted you._

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't hear the footsteps before the door swings open. Peter stops in his tracks and snaps his head to Tony standing in the doorway. Relief floods his face and he takes two strides into the room, arms raised slightly as if he's going to pull Peter in for a hug, but when Peter stumbles back out of his reach, he doesn't advance further.

"Pete," Tony breathes, taking in Peter's pitiful state. Peter looks away, ashamed. He doesn't want Tony to see his red cheeks, rosy nose, or tear-stained face. He doesn't want him to see the mess that is Peter Parker.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Peter stammers, wiping his face with his sleeves. "I'll go, I didn't mean to—"

Tony's eyes widen slightly when Peter makes a step to the open window. He moves between Peter and the window with his arms extended, saying, "Woah, slow down. You're okay."

Peter chokes on a sob. He's not _okay_. It's so obvious that he's so far from _okay_.

Tony's face softens and he lowers his arms. His eyes scan over Peter's body as if he's searching for any injuries. "May called. Said you ran out and you didn't say where you were going."

Peter faces away from Tony, wiping under his nose with his sleeve to try to clean up the mess on his face. "I didn't—I didn't mean to worry h-her, I just—" He cuts himself off and sniffs. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, I texted her when Friday alerted me that you entered the building," Tony says slowly. He's shifting on his feet, unsure how to help without getting closer to him.

Peter hugs himself tight and says, "I can leave if you, if you don't want me here. I-I can go."

"I don't want you to go," Tony enunciates. Tries to make eye contact with Peter but fails. "Hey, I'm glad you came here. May and I probably would have flipped over every building in New York trying to find you if you didn't."

"She hates me."

Sadness fills Tony's eyes. "You know that's not true."

"She _should_ hate me," Peter says, furiously wiping his cheeks because the _damn tears won't stop_. "She has every reason to hate me, I'm a shitty nephew, she doesn't deserve to put up with me—"

"Stop that," Tony says, firm but sad. "We're not going to do that, okay? Peter, look at me."

"It's true!" he exclaims through his tears, his voice breaking. He finally meets Tony's eyes. "She isn't even related to me! She never signed up for this, for me to be dumped on her doorstep. She married Uncle Ben and now she's stuck with his defective nephew she never asked for!"

"Your aunt loves you like a son," Tony argues, pointing vaguely in what he assumes is the direction of May's apartment. "She loves you so damn much, Peter. Ask her yourself and she'll tell you."

"She loves the old me, the one that wasn't a mess or, or the one who did good in school." Peter wipes a hand down his cheek and says, "I'm . . . I'm just damaged beyond repair."

"You're not."

"I _am_ ," Peter immediately says, almost pleading for Tony to see just how fucking messed up he is. "I can't even sleep in my bed some nights, and I feel so, so _dirty,_ like I can never be clean no matter how hard I scrub my skin raw or how many times I brush my teeth until my gums bleed." He chokes on a sob and hugs himself tighter, his eyes squeezing shut. "I can still _feel him."_

The words hang in the silence between them. Peter turns away, his eyes still shut and his arms still wrapped protectively around himself, and pressed his lips in a straight line in an attempt to stifle his crying.

Tony isn't saying anything. He doesn't want to look at him. He doesn't want to see the disappointment or disgust on his face. He just wants to disappear.

The sound of a light thump and his bed frame creaking makes Peter chance a look over his shoulder. Tony's sitting on his bed, his face in his hands.

"I don't—" Tony's voice is thick and slightly muffled by his hands. "I can't tell you how badly I want to fucking kill this man."

Peter turns all the way around. "Mr. Stark—"

"You don't deserve this, Peter," he says, looking up from his hands and meeting Peter's teary gaze. Tony looks down and wipes a tear from his cheek before looking back up. "You don't deserve a fucking thing that man did to you, and absolutely none of it was your fault."

Peter averts his eyes, ashamed. "I let him—"

"I wouldn't care if you had physically thrown yourself at him and explicitly asked for it," Tony interjects fiercely, his eyes filled with conviction. "He manipulated you and took what he wanted. Nothing, _nothing,_ that happened was your fault."

Peter wrings his hands together. His mouth opens, about to argue, but then clamps shut. Blinking back tears, he says, "This is so _hard_."

He doesn't clarify what _this_ is, but he doesn't have to. Tony runs his hands down his face before standing, looking down at Peter with eyes that glisten in the light. "I know, and I'm sorry. It's—it's going to be hard for a while."

Peter shakes his head, more tears stinging behind his eyes. "I can't do this, Tony."

"Yes, you can," he says, leveling his gaze with Peter's. "And you're not going to go through it alone, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

Peter sniffs and wipes his nose. "You don't have—"

"I want to," Tony cuts in before he can even finish his sentence. "I want to and I'm going to."

Fresh tears spring to Peter's eyes and he can't stop the sob that rises up his throat. Without warning, he steps forward and crashes into Tony's chest, his shaking arms wrapping around him. Tony doesn't hesitate to wrap him up and rest his cheek against his head of curly hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really hope it doesn't seem like I'm glamorizing sexual assault at all. I know it's a fine line and that lots of media get it wrong and accidentally end up glamorizing it, so I hope I'm not contributing to this misrepresentation or making anyone upset through Peter's story. My intentions are to tell Peter's story as realistic and non-glamorizing as possible and to perhaps spread awareness to the fact that males are not immune to sexual abuse.
> 
> also can I just say that y'all are too sweet omg you guys literally make my day with your comments <3


	12. Calm

Peter falls asleep on the couch after he turns the TV to _Parks and Recreation_ and Tony goes to the kitchen to call May. He considers listening to the phone conversation, but after breaking down and swinging around the city for the first time in a long time, he falls asleep mere minutes after lying down. He doesn't even catch which episode of the show he's watching before his eyelids droop and his head tilts to his shoulder and his breaths even out and suddenly he's caught in a dreamless sleep.

It's nice.

When he stirs awake, his eyes slowly blinking open and his legs uncurling themselves to stretch, an orange glow from the early sunrise sweeps into the room. He glances out the large floor-to-ceiling window. Slowly, everything registers and he realizes that it's Thursday morning.

He has to go to school.

Groaning, Peter asks, "Friday, what time is it?"

_"It is currently 7:43 AM on Thursday, September 12."_

Peter jolts awake and sits up. "What? School starts in seventeen minutes!"

He springs off the couch, not even noticing the blanket he doesn't remember having when he fell asleep falling to the ground. He trips over it slightly on his rush to leave.

Peter freezes in the doorway of the kitchen. His breath catches in his throat and all his senses are on high alert.

Sitting at the kitchen counter are May and Tony, each with a mug of coffee in front of them. May's dressed in jeans and a blouse, Tony in jeans and an old rock band t-shirt. They turn at the sound of Peter's entrance.

Like a deer caught in headlights, Peter stammers, "I, uh, I'm gonna be late for school."

Tony and May exchange a glance before May says, "I called you in sick." Her eyes flicker back to Tony before returning to her nephew. "Tony and I thought it'd be best if you didn't go in today."

Peter wants to argue with that, to say that he's fine, but he knows there's still a lot to unpack with everything that went down last night. And he's so sick and tired of arguing with his aunt. So, instead, he just asks, "Why aren't you at work?"

May looks to Tony again, but the man turns away to take a sip of his coffee. With a sigh, May meets Peter's questioning gaze and says, "Tony and I have been talking."

Dread, red-hot dread fills Peter's stomach. His eyes flash to Tony, silently asking, _begging_ that he hadn't spilled his secret before he had a chance to talk to her. His shoulders relax when Tony inconspicuously shakes his head at the unasked question.

"And I think you and I need to talk," May continues, drawing Peter's attention back to her. "More specifically, I need to apologize to you."

Tony stands, picking up his coffee as he moves. "That's my cue. I'll leave you two to sort things out while I order us some breakfast."

As usual, the mention of breakfast brings some stress for Peter, but he pushes it away and focuses on May. As soon as Tony leaves, he slips into the chair beside her and says sheepishly, "You don't need to apologize to me, it's okay."

"No, honey, I do," May says with a sad smile. "I shouldn't have—I don't know what I was thinking when I said those things to you last night. I shouldn't have shouted at you. I'm sorry."

Peter looks down as he picks at his cuticles. "It's okay, I forgive you. I know you didn't mean to yell. I shouldn't have made it worse, so I'm sorry for yelling and for what I said, too."

"It's okay, I forgive you too."

A hand clasps down on his wrist, and Peter tenses and his brain shouts _DANGER! DANGER!_ , but when his head whips up _it's just Aunt May it's just Aunt May._

"Can you let go of me, please?" Peter asks quietly, unable to speak louder than a small squeak.

May frowns in confusion but lets go. "Yeah, sorry honey."

As soon as her hand is off of his skin, Peter's body relaxes. He lets out a soft breath. "Thanks. Sorry."

May doesn't say anything.

Peter knows this tactic: don't say anything so the other person has to say something. People do it all the time. At first Peter doesn't think he'll fall for it, but then the silence and May's eyes on him get to be too much and he says, "Can I be honest with you?"

"Of course."

Peter presses his lips into a straight line. "I, uh, I don't really . . . I don't like pancakes anymore." It isn't what he wanted to say, but it's something. It reminds him of the conversation he had with Tony when he started to open up to him about what actually happened in those two months in Beck's cabin. Somehow, it isn't any easier to talk about despite telling Tony and that doctor. The words still get lodged in his throat. "I-I don't, I also don't want to be touched, please. Not unless I say it's okay. I know it sounds weird, but I just—my brain kinda associates touch with, with like, danger now. If that makes sense."

Understanding fills May's eyes. "He hurt you, didn't he? You said nothing happened, but he hurt you."

Peter nods. He doesn't add _how_ Beck hurt him or the nature of his kidnapping, but that doesn't seem important in the moment. For now, May knows his boundaries.

"I'm sorry for lying and not being open," Peter says. "I didn't think it'd be affecting me so much."

May blinks back tears. "Okay. It's okay, Peter, it isn't your fault." She takes a breath to collect herself, then give him a strained smile. "Thank you for telling me, even if you're still holding back. It's a step in the right direction."

Peter nods. His mind is battling against itself to tell her more, but she seems to be okay that he isn't telling her everything, so the guilt on his shoulders lessens a little. It's okay for now.

•

May and Tony have agreed to let Peter stay the rest of the week at the compound. He goes to school the next day and lingers after English class ends while his classmates file out. He grips his backpack straps and rocks back and forth on his feet as he stands in front of his teacher's desk.

"I'm sorry for the disrespect I've shown you," he says, unable to meet her eyes as he grips his backpack straps tighter. "Something, like, happened over the summer, and I've been having . . . I've been having a hard time adjusting. I know it's no excuse for my behavior and lack of participation, but I was hoping maybe there was a different book I could read for the assignment? I'll work really hard and read it as soon as possible and—"

"Thank you for reaching out to me, Peter," she says, smiling gently. Peter clamps his mouth shut and listens as she continues, "I'm afraid I can't just assign you a personal unit to complete, especially since we're nearing the end of _The Great Gatsby_ unit, but there is some extra credit I could give you."

She reaches into her desk and pulls out some papers. After shifting through them, she finds the stack she was looking for and holds them out to Peter. He gratefully takes them.

"It's a little research project," she explains as Peter skins over the front paper. "It has all the details on there, but it's essentially a research paper on the literary effects of the 1920s."

There's no mentions of _The Great Gatsby_. He doesn't need to discuss it. Sure, it's a major literary moment from the time period, but he could skim over that book while focusing on other points.

"Thank you so much," Peter says, looking up from the papers. "Seriously, I just—Thank you. I'll get it done this weekend."

•

Michelle looks surprised to see Peter at Decathlon practice. Which is weird, because nothing ever surprises her. It's like a super power at this point: never being surprised, always expecting what happens to happen, and just kind of knowing everything that's going on at all times. It's slightly unnerving to see the flicker of surprise on her face when he walks in.

Peter takes his usual seat beside Ned and avoids Michelle's gaze. "Hey, man. Is she pissed I missed yesterday? It was sort of a mandatory meeting."

Ned sends a not-so-subtle glance towards Michelle at the front of the table. "Surprisingly enough, no. I would say she didn't even notice, but like, she notices everything, so . . ."

"Shut up dweebs," Michelle says, and although Ned looks scandalized for being called out, she's addressing the whole table of Acadeca members. Mr. Harrington looks on disapprovingly at her choice of words but Michelle moves on before he can voice his disdain. "Let's get started. Flash, get off your phone."

Flash rolls his eyes but pockets the device, crossing his arms across his chest like he's pouting.

They run through some trivia before focusing on that meeting's concentration, which is math. They do some drills, solve equations, and argue over which formulas would best fit the questions. Flash makes a Penis Parker comment, and it makes Peter uncomfortable, but he pushes it away before he can overreact. All in all, practice goes alright.

Instead of going out the main doors with everyone else, Peter diverges from the crowd and heads to the water fountain. After taking a drink, he straightens and turns, only to jump back and bump into the water fountain with his hip when he comes face-to-face with Michelle.

She's got her jacket on and her backpack sling over one shoulder, an indifferent look settled on her soft features.

"Michelle," Peter says, ignoring the pain in his hip and straightening. "Um, what—?"

"Did you tell anyone yet, loser?"

Peter blinks. It takes a moment for him to piece together what she means. When he does, he sighs, "It's seriously not as big of a deal as you're making it."

"Doubt it," she counters. "But you didn't answer my question."

He purses his lips, then runs a hand through his hair. "Yes, I did, actually. And they're helping me."

Michelle's eyes narrow. After finding what she's looking for in his face, she leans her weight on her back leg and says, "Good. Don't miss practice again."

She spins on her heel and leaves without another word. When she's out of eyesight, Peter releases a breath and heads to the main doors.

He's turning the corner when he literally runs into Ned.

Confused, Peter looks up and says, "Hey, isn't your mom coming to pick—"

"What's going on?" Ned blurts, his eyes confused yet worried.

Peter frowns. "What?"

"I totally wasn't trying to eavesdrop, I swear," Ned rambles, "but you've been weird lately and I've noticed you've been talking to Michelle more than usual, so I thought that maybe you two were like secretly dating, but that's obviously not it, there's something—something wrong? With you?"

"There's nothing _wrong_ with me," Peter immediately denies. "I'm—you—it's not—"

"It's fine," Ned rushes to assure. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, you said you were getting help, so that's . . . that's good. I just—" He tried to hide the hurt in his face. "Why don't you want to tell me?"

Peter wants to punch himself in the face until Ned stops looking so sad. He's his best friend; of course he's going to be upset when he tells someone else a secret and keeps it from him.

"It's not you, Ned," Peter sighs. "I'm sorry, I didn't even tell Michelle, somehow she just . . . found out."

Ned's eyes widen. "Did she find out about Spider-Man?" He says it in a hushed tone and glances around suspiciously.

If they weren't having a serious conversation, Peter probably would have found it humorous.

"No, it's not—it's not exactly about that," Peter says. Ned deserves an explanation, but he can't let him know how messed up, how dirty he is. He looks away and says, "I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want you to think less of me."

"I wouldn't—"

"You don't know that," Peter cuts in, exasperated and just tired. He sighs again. "Sorry."

Ned frowns. "It's okay, bro. Just know that there's nothing you could do that would make me think of you any less." He pauses. "Well, maybe murder. Unless you've murdered innocent people, or, like, purposefully killed puppies, I wouldn't change my mind about you."

That elicits a half-hearted chuckle from Peter. "Thanks, man. And no, I haven't murdered any people or puppies."

Ned smiles. "Then we're good. Bro-hug it out?"

He extends his arms, but Peter hesitates. Flash's Penis Parker comment from earlier is still lingering, which makes the _hands_ and the _taste_ linger, but Ned—his best friend—wants a harmless hug. Peter considers ignoring the discomfort, but then he realizes that he's allowed to say no. That's why Ned asked in the first place.

"How about our handshake?" Peter suggests, smiling gently.

Ned doesn't skip a beat. He enthusiastically pounds Peter's fist, taps his elbow with his, and does the rest of the steps to their meticulous handshake.

Peter leaves the school smiling for the first time in a while.

•

May and Peter have dinner, then May brings out a pie she made. Well, she tells Peter that she made pie, but the pie is perfect and he can smell a muted burnt aroma coming from the oven and he spots a cardboard package for a pie in the trash. He lets her believe she actually baked it, though.

It's a nice evening. May mentions that his grade has gone up in English and Peter smiles and shrugs and says that he is trying to be better. May asks before giving him a kiss on the head and tells him that she loves him, always has and always will no matter what.

•

Peter comes over to the compound for the weekend again. He and Tony work in the workshop, listening to Tony's old music and talking a lot about nothing. Bruce comes in around six o'clock and presents Peter with the sleeping pills.

"They're a very high dosage because of your metabolism," Bruce says, holding the bottle up. "Only take one a night, about a half hour before you want to go to bed. It should help you fall asleep and stay in a dreamless sleep for the whole night."

Peter's excited to the pills out. He thanks Bruce, asks if he owes him anything, but just smiles when Tony and Bruce laugh before waving it off.

They have dinner together, Bruce, Tony, and Peter. Natasha Romanoff joins halfway through and steals a piece of pizza off Bruce's plate. Although Peter has met Natasha before, he's still star-struck and manages to stutter over all his words. When Natasha leaves, Tony teases Peter about turning all fan-boy. Peter rolls his eyes and says that he's just jealous that he isn't star-struck by him anymore.

When it's time for bed, Peter swallows a little white pill with a gulp of water and retires to his room to climb into bed.

He starts to doze off, but then his senses go nuts and a sharp tingle of danger shoots down his spine and he tries to open his eyes and look behind him, but his movements are sluggish and his eyelids only open a crack.

His heart beats rapidly. He tries to wake himself up, but his body seems to shut down while his mind is screaming at him to _move Quentin's right behind you!_

He falls asleep not too long after that, his mind fading into a dreamless state and his heartbeat slowing.

•

Peter's hand flies up and catches a blueberry hurdling towards his face seconds before it could hit his forehead. Glancing at it, Peter frowns.

"I asked you a question, bud. Still waking up?" Tony muses, plopping a blueberry into his mouth. He's eating blueberry waffles with fresh blueberries while Peter's eating a bowl of soggy cornflakes. Well, he's staring at the cereal more than he's actually eating it.

Peter tosses the blueberry across the room at the trashcan. Tony's brow raises, impressed by the nonchalant throw, and Peter says, "Sorry, yeah. What's up?"

"How are those sleeping pills working out?" Tony asks, bringing a forkful of waffles to his mouth. Around the fluffy waffle, he asks, "Any nightmares?"

"No," Peter says, and it's the truth. "No nightmares."

But he still doesn't _like_ the pills. He knows he's being ungrateful and picky because they truly are doing their job, but they also made him feel so trapped in his body and out of control. He couldn't look over his shoulder, couldn't look at the door, couldn't move to the floor. He couldn't move. And that's _terrifying_.

"Good," Tony says, smiling. He nods to the untouched bowl of cereal in front of Peter. "Don't tell me you're one of those nutcases who like to eat their cereal soggy."

He isn't, but Tony gives him an out so he takes it in full stride. With a glare, Peter says, "I'm only eating it how it's supposed to be eaten, Mr. Stark. Don't tell me you eat it _dry_."

"Crunchy is so much better than soggy."

Straight-faced, Peter says seriously, "I'm going back to the apartment. I can't spend another minute next to such blasphemy."

"Your generation is so dramatic." Tony flicks another blueberry at Peter's forehead, which the boy catches, of course.

•

Tuesday night, Peter takes a hot shower, then shakes his hair out with a towel. He gets dressed into some soft pajama pants and an old Midtown pep band t-shirt before making his way to his bedroom, already dreading taking a sleeping pill. On his way to his room, May calls his name from the living room.

"Hm?" Peter sticks his head around the corner, a brow raised inquisitively.

May's sitting on the couch, bundled up with a wool blanket laid over her legs propped up on the coffee table. Pointing the remote to the TV, she says, "There's a _Harry Potter_ marathon! Want to stay up watching it with me? It could be just like old times."

Peter hovers in the doorway, his hand on the wall as he leans against it. His heart flutters anxiously at the scene in front of him: a dark room with a movie playing and Quentin on the couch. No, _May_ is on the couch. Quentin is in prison.

"I have school tomorrow," Peter says lamely.

May shrugs, turning back to the TV. "Wouldn't hurt to have a little movie night. Besides, Tony told me about those sleeping pills Dr. Banner made you, so if you take one you'll probably be conked out before _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ starts." 

Peter hesitates. Rolls the thought around in his mind. "Okay. I'll go take one real quick."

"Hurry, _The Sorcerer's Stone_ starts in less than two minutes!"

Peter takes his time walking to his room. He keeps the pills in his nightstand, so he opens it up and shakes a single, small white pill into the palm of his hand. Stares at it. It's the size of a tic-tac, yet it weighs his hand down.

"It's on!" comes May's voice from the other room.

With a sigh, Peter throws the pill into his mouth and swallows it with a swig of water from the half-empty bottle on his nightstand. He feels it run down his throat and drop into his stomach.

The opening scene Peter's seen a million times is playing when he returns and sits on the floor with his back leaning against the couch.

"What are you sitting down there for? Come 'ere, I'll share my blanket."

Not wanting to argue, he stands and sits beside May, close enough for the blanket to drape over his legs along with May's. He tries to relax into the couch, but all of his muscles are tense and his heart is being weird and fluttery again.

A familiar fuzziness starts to weigh his mind down. His eyelids droop, and a yawn stretches his jaw. May smiles warmly at him and has him rest his head against her shoulder.

He doesn't want to, though. He doesn't want to be this close to her, to be able to feel her warmth, to be able to touch her, for _him to be close enough to touch him and do whatever he wants with him and he won't stop it he won't do anything._

His vision darkens. Lead fills his veins, weighing his arms down to his sides.

He can't tell if the arm that drapes around his middle is real or fake. Either way, he wants it _off_.

The fuzziness envelops his mind and tugs him under.


	13. Brewing

The floorboard creaks under his socked feet every time he paces over it. He barely notices, though. His mind is too caught up on something so stupid that he can barely hear anything other than his thoughts.

He rakes his hands through his hair and tightens his grip at the roots, pulling until his scalp stings. It doesn't help. He needs—he needs something, _anything_ to shut his stupid brain off.

What he's obsessing about? It's stupid. It's so stupid, so illogical, so impossible, so sick, so _stupid stupid stupid._

Peter hits his forehead with his fists. That doesn't work, either. He bangs his fists against his forehead again. " _Stopstopstop_."

Here's the thing: ever since waking up on the couch after the movie night with May and immediately smelling what he thought were pancakes but actually turned out to be waffles, he's felt so _wrong_. And his thoughts are so _wrong_. Everything is _wrong_.

He keeps thinking back to the arm he felt around him right before he fell asleep. It could have just his mind tormenting him with phantom touches, or May was in a snuggly mood and wanted to hold him close. Those are the only two reasonable possibilities. Peter _knows_ this; yet, he can't let go of the nagging voice at the back of his head that's telling him that May was the one who hugged him, only she didn't just hug him. The feeling of bugs crawling over him washes over his skin and he shudders.

Obviously May would never do anything even close to what Beck did to him. But Peter's mind is twisted and he's so _stupid_ and he can't let go of the impossible possibility that May did something to him. The idea manifests into flashes, not unlike those he has about his time in the cabin, but these flashes never even happened. They aren't memories, they're fake. They make Peter want to throw up and punch himself in the face harder than he has been.

He knows it's sick. He knows it's wrong. But he can't seem to block out the imaginary flashes of his aunt on him, touching him, being intimate with him—

"STOP!"

His fists crashes straight through the wall. Dust from the drywall slowly float to the floor as Peter stares at the mess he just made with his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Standing there, breaths ragged, Peter slowly realizes that _oh there's a fucking hole in the wall_ and then realizes that _oh shit my hand is still in there_ and quickly pulls his fist back to his chest, stumbling away from the damage, shocked and horrified at himself.

He can't just _do_ that. People don't just punch holes in walls when they're upset. It's not even like he's upset about something legitimate, it's literally his brain making shit up and then getting worked up about it as of it weren't his fault.

He just got back from school ten minutes ago, so May's still at work. He's got roughly three more hours until her shift ends. That's three hours to pull himself together and fix the hole. Or, probably not fix it, just hide it. He can do complex equations blindfolded but doesn't know the first thing when it comes to repairing a hole in the wall. It's all a big metaphor, really; he can't fix anything, not even himself, so he just covers it up and pretends like it never even happened. He can't _fix_ things. He only _destroys_ and _ruins_ and makes things _worse_.

His whole body shaking, Peter lifts his fist he had cradled to his chest to inspect it. There's little speckles of blood on his knuckles where the skin split, but other than that—and a little soreness—it's fine. He flexes his hand a few times before glancing back at the hole like it's going to swallow him whole. Which, at this point, Peter wouldn't put up much of a fight against. His every effort to get better just seems pointless.

He smacks himself in the face a few times to cool himself down, takes a few deep breaths, then casually steps up to his Star Wars poster to move it over the hole.

If he can't see it, it isn't there. Nothing ever happened in the first place.

•

May is happy. Peter's grades—not just his English grade—are getting better. On Wednesday, Peter gets a call from Tony while he's doing his homework to congratulate him on getting all As again. The man then starts to pull back his walls and admits how proud of him he is, and Peter appreciates the sentiment, he really does, but he just . . . doesn't feel like he deserves it. He doesn't see why anyone—much less Tony Stark of all people—would ever be proud of him. He's just doing the bare minimum and still struggling.

May cooks a celebratory dinner to show how proud of him she is, too. It ends up taking a nose-dive into the trashcan, though, so they end up ordering some pizza. Afterwards May suggests they watch a movie, but Peter's mind goes to dark places, some of which _never even happened_ , and he stutters out something about doing some homework before bed to keep his grades up.

May smiles fondly and kisses the side of his head, not even noticing the cringe on Peter's face at the contact. She says she's proud of him again, tells him to give himself a break from homework if he needs one, and reminds him not to forget to take his sleeping pills before he retreats to his room.

She doesn't realize that Peter locks his door and has a panic attack that has him curling up on the floor with a hand clamped over his mouth to stay silent and his other hand clutched onto his thigh so tight that his nails cut into his skin. She falls asleep before Peter can't take it anymore and bangs his head against the floor until he knocks himself out.

•

"How're the sleeping pills?"

Peter looks up from his cuticles he's picking at and meets Bruce's inquisitive gaze. The man is analyzing him, already collecting his answer before Peter can say anything.

Clearing his throat and setting his hands limp in his lap, he says, "Yeah, they're good. They're working."

He glances at the door. Tony is in his quarters on an important phone call with the Secretary of State. Peter isn't sure what it's about, but he knows that Tony really didn't want to answer the call based on how he rolled his eyes and told Friday to tell the guy he was sick as a dog. Peter knows he is nowhere as important as the meeting, but he still finds himself wishing Tony hadn't given in to Friday's reasoning and ignored the phone call to stay with him.

It isn't that Bruce is scary or anything—he's literally one of the kindest, most gentle people he's ever met—it's just . . . Well, he isn't sure, if he was being honest. Maybe he just wants someone to be by his side.

Despite Peter's assurance, Bruce seems skeptical. He tilts his head somewhat and continues his staring. "So no nightmares at all?" Peter shakes his head. "Are you staying asleep all night?"

"Most of the time, yeah." It's refreshing not having to lie for once.

"Any side effects?" Bruce continues. "Headaches, chills, fatigue, nausea?"

"Nope," Peter replies, smiling. "It's working like a dream. Thanks again, by the way."

Bruce returns the smile. "It was no problem, Peter." There's a pause. Bruce's smile falters a bit. "You're not going out as Spider-Man yet, are you?"

Peter's brow pulls forward. "No. Why?"

"Where'd you get that bruise from?" Bruce makes a circling motion to Peter's left temple.

It takes a few seconds for him to realize that the bruise from that morning is still healing. Instead of admitting to being triggered by someone at school accidentally brushing against his backside in the crowded hallway and then having to smack his head with his textbook to pull himself back into reality, Peter just shrugs and says, "Oh, that? Yeah, I got hit in the head during gym class."

Lying again. He doesn't even have a gym class this year.

Bruce, thankfully, doesn't know that. He winces in sympathy and says, "I remember high school gym. Does the teacher still force you guys to play dodgeball?"

"All. The. Time."

•

He's sitting at the edge of his bed. The lights are off, and he's just sitting there in the dark with a little white pill in one hand and a water bottle in the other.

He doesn't want to take it. He doesn't want to feel powerless and trapped and vulnerable. _What if May comes in and—_

He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fist to close over the pill.

"She wouldn't," he whispers to himself. She'd _never_ touch him like that.

Letting out a deep breath through his nose, Peter uncurls his fist and locks his attention on the pill again. It usually knocks him out within a half hour, but . . .

He glances at the bottle sitting innocently on his nightstand.

What if he could just fall asleep instantly? Skip all the drowsiness and fear?

But Bruce had said only to take one.

But one is not working fast enough

But it could be dangerous.

But it could be the answer.

With mild hesitation, Peter takes the pill bottle and slowly unscrews the lid. He dumps a second pill into his hand, then decides to go for a third just in case. After capping the container and tossing it to his nightstand, he looks down into his cupped hand. His thumb moves the three pills to roll against each other.

They're tiny. How bad could three be?

Peter closes his eyes and throws them into his mouth. With a large swing of water, he swallows.

As soon as his head hits his pillow, he's out cold.

•

A line of sunshine slowly creeps up Peter's face as the sun rises. He blinks, slowly pushing himself up on his elbows, a large yawn stretching his jaw. The warmth of the sun soothes his bare skin and brings a soft smile to his lips.

His phone reads 6:45. Fifteen minutes before his alarm to wake up for school goes off. Oddly enough, he isn't even annoyed by this. He just feels . . . refreshed.

Out of the corner of his eye, the pill bottle catches his attention and he turns. A small part of him feels guilty for taking three pills, but another, larger part feels nonchalant about it. Nothing bad happened. In fact, he feels better. Good, even.

Peter feels good.

He snorts. When was the last time he felt _good?_ And all he had to do was down a couple extra sleeping pills before bed.

Thanks to his sudden energy and lightness, Peter throws the covers off him and slides on his socked feet across the wood floors to his closet. He sifts between clothes before pulling out a nerdy t-shirt and some jeans. After dressing, he slides to the bathroom where he brushes his teeth and fixes his bedhead in the mirror. He runs his fingertips under the water before raking them through his hair to tame the messy chocolate curls. His eyes meet his own in the reflection and he's shocked to find how non-dead he looks. The bags under his eyes are significantly lighter, and his face isn't so dreary.

He's starting to look normal.

May is brewing herself a cup of coffee when Peter steps into the kitchen. She turns, her hands gripping the mug for the warmth of the hot beverage, and blows on it softly. She's too preoccupied to notice Peter until he wraps his arms around her in a hug. She startled slightly before realizing it's her nephew and then immediately smiles.

"Oh, good morning, sweetie. How'd you sleep?"

Peter removed his arms from around her and walks around the kitchen in smooth, fluid movements as he gathers his breakfast of two pop tarts and a glass of water. "Really good, actually. Those sleeping pills really help."

May's grin widens as she watches him. "I'm glad to hear that."

Peter finishes off his pop tarts and water before brushing his teeth again and grabbing his backpack for school. He gives May another hug on his way out. She hugs him back, telling him that she likes seeing him happy before bidding him a good day at school.

Ned immediately notices Peter's mood shift. He watches with narrowed eyes as Peter bops his head along to a random pop song stuck in his head while digging around in his messy locker for his textbook.

When Peter shuts his locker door and turns, Ned says, "Okay, what's up with you?"

Peter blinks. "What?"

"I like seeing you be happy and all," Ned clarifies, "But, like, why are you so happy? It's Monday morning."

Peter shrugs, a tilted smile on his face. "I had, like, the best sleep ever last night. I just feel refreshed."

He starts down the hall to his first class of the day, and Ned hesitates before following, still suspicious but willing to play along. "That's good. Hey, did you want to come over and help me build the Millennium Falcon set after school?"

Peter immediately turns to his friend. "Uh, of course! Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you said you were too busy the last two times I asked," Ned replies, confusion coating his tone.

Peter frowns. He doesn't recall Ned ever bringing up the fact that he got the Lego Millennium Falcon set. "Oh. Sorry. Of course I'll come over after school, I'll just have to text May to let her know."

"Awesome." Ned grins.

They reach Peter's class, so they do their little handshake before heading their separate ways. Peter passes by Michelle at her locker but doesn't notice her eyes trailing after him.

•

"He's been really happy lately," May says from the kitchen. She was making dinner—Peter could tell it was something with marinara sauce based off the smell—when her phone started to ring and Tony's voice asked how Peter was doing. Instead of being mad or annoyed about the two talking about him behind his back, Peter just listens in. "He's also been giving me a lot more hugs lately. It's nice . . . he has always been a physically affectionate kid, but when he came back he'd been so adverse to touch, you know?"

 _"He's initiating the hugs_?" Tony asks, skeptical yet hopeful.

"Yeah. Just the other day, he woke up and then came out to the kitchen and just hugged me out of nowhere." She pauses. "I think he's recovering for real, Tony."

" _Good. The kid deserves it_." He sighs. " _He deserves so much more than even having to recover from something like this, but . . . but it's still good."_

"I think the sleep is really helping," May says. "He seems so much less exhausted. I'm going to have to send Bruce some cookies or something as a thanks."

Peter silently agrees. Although, since he's been taking three pills a night for almost a week now, he's starting to run low on pills. Last time he checked, he only had six left. That's just two nights. He can't go back to just one pill a night. He needs more.

He's going to the compound tomorrow for a lab weekend. Maybe then he can talk to Bruce and get a refill. He'll have to come up with an excuse why he ran out so quickly, but he has the rest of the day to think of something.

By the time he thinks of a believable excuse, it's already time to take his pills and go to sleep. His stomach is full with delicious pasta May managed to nail and he's . . . happy. He's happy. He's actually looking forward to going to sleep and waking up in the morning well-rested.

Looking down at the three pills in his hand, Peter glances at the last three in the bottle. If he's getting a refill the next day, then he could take more without having to go a night without them. Maybe adding a fourth pill will make him even more well-rested. Maybe he can feel even better.

He reaches for the bottle and shakes out another pill. The four sit perfectly in his hand. With a sense of excitement, Peter plops the pills into his mouth. He doesn't even need water anymore.

Without a second thought, Peter tilts his head back and swallows the four pills on his tongue.

Sleep comes to him like it does every night, though the difference in how he feels hits him when his alarm blares the next morning. He groans and fumbles with his phone to turn it off, his arms feeling like lead and his head muggy.

The odd feeling goes away after he sits up and blinks a few times. Then, he's as refreshed and rested as ever.

He doesn't think twice about it and starts his day like usual: get dressed, hug May, eat breakfast, brush teeth, fix hair, leave.

Everything goes smoothly until around fourth period. Peter's hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion and struggles to keep his eyes open long enough to take notes. He has to cover his mouth to hide his yawns and eventually gives up trying to fight the fatigue during sixth period and sets his head down on his desk during the boring American Revolution documentary the teacher puts on. He doesn't realize he fell asleep until the bell startles him awake.

"Tired?" Michelle asks, poking him in the arm with the end of her pencil.

Peter frowns and rubs his eye. "I guess."

"Don't sleep during Decathlon."

"I won't," Peter says, brushing it off, but he almost _does_ fall asleep during practice after school. The only reason why he doesn't is because he's too scared to find out what Michelle would do if he did. Ned asks if he's okay, and Peter just says that he didn't get a lot of sleep last night. It's a total lie, but he doesn't know how else to explain his fatigue.

Happy mentions something about Bruce being at the compound when Peter climbs into the back after practice lets out. Peter's heart soars. He'll be able to talk to him and get more pills after all. The anticipation seems to wake him up a bit.

"Hey, Mr. Stark!" Peter chirps, bounding into the lab and setting his backpack down on his work desk.

Tony looks up from his gadgets and sends a grin the boy's way. "How long are you going to keep that up, huh? You've called me Tony before."

"I'm sorry for being polite," Peter shoots back, a playful smile playing on his lips. "So what are we doing today?"

"Cleaning."

Peter's smile drops. "Aw, what? _Cleaning_?"

Tony laughs and picks up a broom, stepping over to Peter before holding it out. Peter takes it and glares at it.

"Sorry, kiddo, but this place is starting to look like a pigsty."

Peter cocks his head to the side. "But it's always messy in here?"

"All the more reason to clean it," Tony says. He grabs a towel and wipes the motor oil off his hands. "And Pepper's visiting tomorrow, and I know she'll comment on how disorganized everything is, so."

Peter perks. "Ms. Potts is coming over?"

"Yes, so you have to be on your best behavior tomorrow," Tony says, somewhat mockingly. "Prove that I'm not a terrible role model."

"Oh," Peter quips, "So you want me to lie?"

Tony's jaw drops and he lightly hits Peter in the shoulder with the rag. "Hey now, I'm a terrific role model."

"I know, I know, I was just joking." Peter rolls his eyes and starts to sweep the floor. He makes a pile of dust, dirt, and scrapped screws. "Hey, is Dr. Banner here today?"

He hears clinking of metal and looks up to see the man organizing screwdrivers and other tools into drawers. "Yep, I think he's doing some research in his lab. Why, you getting bored of me already?"

"Not of you, just of cleaning," Peter says cheekily. "Did you know that we have a picture of Dr. Banner hanging up next to Einstein in science lab at school?"

"Careful, Pete, your inner fanboy is coming out."

Peter rolls his eyes. "I'm just saying that he's, like, a huge name in science and stuff. I like talking to him."

"More than you like talking to thee Tony Stark?" Tony asks, raising an arrogant brow.

"That's not what I'm saying—"

"No, it's okay," Tony flippantly says, shutting a drawer dramatically. "I totally get it, I'm just too boring for you now. You'd rather spend your time with a giant nerd than the most famous man on earth."

Peter laughs. "As much as I admire Dr. Banner, he isn't the one I come to see every weekend."

A genuine smile takes over the playful one on Tony's face. "Damn straight. Make sure you tell him that, would you? Let him know he isn't the favorite."

Rolling his eyes, Peter says, "It's not a competition."

"Oh, it is, trust me."

Peter opens his mouth to banter some more, but instead a yawn comes out.

Tony quirks his head and asks, "Tired?"

Peter blinks the slight tiredness away and says, "Nah, just been a long day."

Tony nods and turns, accidentally knocking over a toolbox of scrap metal. Pointing at the mess, he says, "Missed a spot, Pete."

Peter sends him a glare and makes his way over to the mess, broom in hand.

They clean for a while, bantering and talking like they used to. It's nice. It'd probably be nicer if Peter wasn't so tired and sluggish, but he doesn't really know how to fix that. Maybe he could lower the amount of sleeping pills he takes every night back to three instead of four, but decides that he'd rather just take the four. You know, just in case the three don't cut it and he doesn't fall asleep instantly that night.

Speaking of, he needs to get a refill on his pills. Peter excuses himself from the lab, claiming to be heading to the restroom, and heads towards Bruce's lab. It's much different from Tony's lab. It's always organized and clean, everything having a place to be. There's more science-y things, too, instead of machines and gadgets and old parts. It smells of antiseptic instead of motor oil.

"Hey, Dr. Banner," Peter greets when he steps inside, finding Bruce sitting at a table in front of his laptop. "Are you busy?"

Bruce looks over his laptop and smiles, closing the lid to give the boy his attention. "Not incredibly, no. What's going on?"

Peter slips into the chair across from him casually. "I was just wondering if you had more of those sleeping pills you made me."

A frown tugs on Bruce's lips and scrunches his forehead. "You're out already?"

Peter sheepishly looks away. "I, uh, might have dropped the bottle and some rolled into the vent." He flashes Bruce an apologetic smile.

Relief washes over him when Bruce's frown irons out and he shakes his head fondly, buying the lie. "You're lucky I've already made more. Hold on, let me go grab them."

Peter waits patiently—albeit excitedly—as Bruce steps over to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle identical to Peter's on his nightstand. The only different is that this bottle is full.

Peter tries not to seem too enthusiastic about receiving the pills when Bruce hands them over and quickly pockets the bottle.

"Thanks, Dr. Banner."

"No problem. Try not to drop them this time, alright?"

Peter laughs lightly and says, "You got it. See ya later!"

As soon as he's out of the lab and in the hall, Peter pulls the bottle out of his pocket and looks down at it. Just feeling the weight of the full bottle shoots an odd amount of relief through him.

But at least he knows where Bruce keeps them. If he needs more, instead of lying to Bruce, he can just get them himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any thoughts? i would love to hear what you think!


	14. Storm

Four pills a night definitely keeps him asleep for the whole night without nightmares or even anxiety before falling asleep because of how quick they work, but Peter realizes after about a week of this that this is somehow making him more tired. He goes through the motions of school half-asleep and falls asleep at lunch instead of eating. This concerns Ned, of course, and to avoid Ned getting any ideas of telling May that he isn't eating lunch, Peter eats the granola bar Ned brings every day before laying his head in his arms and falling asleep. He thinks it's fine, that it's just a small price to pay for restful nights, but he draws the line when he startles awake in History biting back a shout.

Falling asleep without the pills is too risky. What if he has another nightmare during class and can't hold back from crying out or bolting out of his seat? That would be both embarrassing and concerning.

Peter feels stuck. He can't just give up taking four pills every night.

There must be something else he can do to fix the problem.

After school on Thursday, Peter sits at his desk in his bedroom and starts a google search on his laptop.

_How to increase energy_

The results are unhelpful at first. He scrolls through blogs from tired moms complaining about staying up all night with a baby and then battling exhaustion during the day. He considers their tips, but they don't seem to take immediate effect like he's looking for.

Eventually, Peter stumbles across a medical site. On it, it details different prescriptions for energy, attentiveness, and alertness.

His mouse hovers over the word _Adderall_.

He's heard of it before. From his understanding, it's an ADHD medication. However, according to the website he's reading, it's also used to treat narcolepsy to help individuals stay awake during the day. He doesn't have narcolepsy, but the effect should be the same, right?

This is what he's been looking for, a quick and easy way to stay awake during the day so he can continue to take his sleeping pills for a restful night.

This is perfect.

What's even better is that he knows a kid at school who deals Adderall: AJ Grimes. Literally everybody knows about AJ's little side hustle, but no one dares snitch because his dad is a scary cop and AJ always finds out if you're going to snitch before you actually do. Back when Peter used to actively be Spider-Man, he wanted to find a way to bust AJ without sending him to juvy or getting him into trouble. He never found the opportunity, though, since he had bigger fish to fry. He's never been more glad for neglecting a drug bust.

Excitement runs through his veins. After this, he'll be energetic during the day and always be rested and he'll get better and May and Tony will be so proud of him and he'll finally be able to push everything from that summer into the past and forget about it forever and move the fuck on.

He clicks out of the browser and opens up his homework. As he reads passages for an assignment, his mind is on overdrive thinking about meeting up with AJ tomorrow.

The website had said Adderall can be addictive. He isn't too worried about that, though. He's not stupid enough to let himself get addicted. Besides, he's doing this to get better, not to cause more problems. He knows his limits.

•

AJ is incredibly easy to find after school. That's probably because Peter had tracked him before, when he was trying to find a good way to stop his drug dealing, but he's glad it's coming in handy.

After school, before Decathlon practice, Peter slips outside and tries to remain casual as can be while making his way around the back to where the dumpers are. AJ is there, leaning against the brick wall of the school, a vape pen in his mouth. A girl Peter assumes is his girlfriend is standing beside him and takes a huff of the pen when he hands it to her.

A suspicious, yet surprised, look crosses AJ's face when Peter approaches them. He pushes off the wall and stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt pocket.

"Parker?" AJ asks, tilting his head. His dark brown eyes scan Peter head-to-toe, making the latter squirm.

Behind him, the girl pipes up, "Hey, aren't you the kid who broke Flash's nose?"

Peter glances at the girl over AJ's shoulder before returning his attention to him. "Yeah."

AJ lets out a low whistle. "Shit, man. I've been wanting to do that since middle school."

Peter just shrugs.

AJ continues his assessment before sniffing and saying, "So whatchu want, Parker?"

Peter's eyes flicker from the girl watching curiously to AJ. Licking his chapped, he says, "I heard you got Adderall?"

AJ leans back on his heels and peers around as if he's checking to make sure Peter isn't setting him up and has someone listening in. Satisfied, he nods and nods towards his backpack sitting against the brick by the girl's feet. Peter hesitantly follows.

He watches as AJ unzips his bag and pulls out a small plastic baggie with two peachy-orange capsules marked with a 30.

Clearing his throat, Peter asks, "How much?"

AJ holds the bag up and squints at it before handing it to Peter. "For 30 milligrams of addy, I'd usually take $40 per, but consider this a reward for punching the shit outta Flash."

Peter looks down at the bag in his hand before lifting his eyes to meet AJ's. "You sure?"

"Yeah, man. That kid is annoying as hell." He laughs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "Afraid you'll have to pay next time, though."

Peter pockets the bag. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." AJ takes the vape pen from the girl and takes a puff. The vapor blows out of his nose like a dragon. "If you want more, you know where to find me."

"Yeah." He flashes the girl a polite smile, then turns and walks back around the school. He waits until he's at his locker to slip the pill into his backpack and heads to the library before Michelle can throttle him for being late to practice.

•

Peter doesn't take the Adderall until Monday. He got them on Friday and didn't want to waste them, or run the risk of getting caught by Tony over the weekend, so when Monday morning comes he's jittery with nerves and anticipation.

He's standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, the door locked. He can hear eggs sizzling on the stove top as May cooks scrambled eggs for the two of them. In his hand, one of the capsules.

It's daunting, but also . . . exciting?

It's to get better. He's taking it to be better for everyone around him so they don't worry. He isn't even sure if it'll work with his metabolism (which is still slower than usual thanks to his irregular eating habits).

He did some research the night before. Apparently AJ booked him up with two 30 mg of Adderall XR pills, which basically just means that it takes a little longer to kick in but lasts almost the whole day. Even then, he'll only have one left for Tuesday, so he folds some cash and tucks it into a hidden zipper in his backpack for another meet-up with AJ behind the school. Eighty dollars cash for the two forty-dollar capsules. At this rate, Peter's going to have to dig into the money he's been saving away for college.

Somehow, that seems too far away and too insignificant for him to worry about.

"Eggs are done, Peter!" May calls from the kitchen.

Peter glances at the door before looking back down at the pill. "Coming!"

He glances at his reflection. His eyes trail over his sharp features, thinking over what he's doing, then slips the pill into his mouth.

He doesn't swallow until he walks out into the kitchen, grabs a glass of water May had poured for him, and takes a long swig. He feels the pill run down his throat and hit his stomach. He imagines it exploding and killing him slowly from the inside, but pushes the stupid thought aside.

"Looks delicious," Peter chirps, hugging May around the middle, then releasing her to slide into his chair. "Thank you."

•

The day passes in a blur. It's like he's watching his actions through a screen while someone is holding down the fast forward button. Before school starts, Peter and Ned laugh over some stupid meme that has taken the internet by storm. In his first period, Peter raises his hand for every single question his AP Calculus teacher asks. He feels Flash glaring at him from across the room but doesn't mind. His next class, he volunteers to pass out papers. He participates fully in all his classes and feels more focused and attentive than he has in a long time.

Peter and Ned laugh at lunch. Although he isn't too hungry, Peter eats all of the food on his tray and the granola bar Ned slides across the table.

In English, the teacher assigns a new book for the new unit: _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ by Shakespeare. Everyone groans when the ratty old books are passed out and are told to read silently for the class hour, but Peter happily cracks open his falling-apart copy of the old play and stays focused on each and every word on the pages.

Peter takes the subway home after Decathlon practice. This old lady with a kind smile and crocheted cardigan boards the subway, so Peter stands and offers her his seat. She thanks him, he brushes it off, she asks if he's a high school student, and somehow they get to the point where Peter is explaining the science behind the possibility of a multiverse.

"It would, theoretically, change how we understand the initial singularity," he rambles. "We're talking about an eternal inflation system. I'm not entirely sure how it would even work with all the quantum—Oh, this is my stop! See ya later, it was nice to meet you!"

He steps off the subway and notices the sun starting to dip low in the sky. Which feels odd, because it felt like he had just woken up and he hasn't done enough for the day to be over, there's still so much to do.

May comes home to find Peter in the kitchen with three dozen cookies and a whole other batch still cooking in the oven. He grins at her arrival and greets her with a hug.

"Hey! I made some cookies!"

May laughs and steps out of his grip, brushing the flour off of his shoulder. "I see that. What's the occasion?"

Turning around to check on the cookies in the oven, Peter says, "I dunno, just felt like it."

They have cookies for dinner, and then leftover pasta for dessert. Then May proposes a movie night and Peter's chest hurt and his hands shake but he agrees and lets May hold him during the whole movie and then when he goes to his room to go to sleep he downs four pills dry and is almost immediately knocked out.

When he wakes up the next morning, he glances at his backpack where the other pill is and smiles.

•

For a while, everything goes smoothly. Peter's sleeping for nine hours every night, he's alert and attentive during the day, and he's happy and making the people around him smile. He barely even thinks about Beck or the cabin, and if he does, he just turns his focus to something else and distracts himself until he forgets that he's distracting himself. Tony tells him that he's proud of him, and May hugs him without asking. (Which is fine it doesn't bother him at all he's better now he doesn't freak out internally he swears.) AJ gives him discounts when he buys more than one addy at a time.

But then he starts to feel it: the downfall, the decline, the comedown, the crash. It usually happens around dinner time, sometime after May gets home from work. Peter's energy is sucked away and suddenly it's like he's moving underwater. Everything is in slow motion. Nothing is as bright as it usually is. It's like being shoved to the ground and having to face reality again.

He doesn't like the aching feeling in his chest. The occasional headache, the bouts of feeling numb, the way his mind reverts to reminding him of the summer he lost to Beck.

May asks if he's okay, and his reaction isn't a bright smile and a quick reassurance because he just can't muster up the energy to do that. He rubs his eyes, leans back in his chair, and says, "Yeah, just tired."

It's worth it, though. If being happy and energetic all means he feels tired in the evening, then so be it.

•

"He's doing so well."

_"He's been acting more like himself lately, all talkative and joking around. It's nice to have some playful banter with him in the lab again. I've been missing that."_

"Do you tell him that?"

_"Hm? Tell him what?"_

"That you've missed him."

_"I don't have to tell him for him to know."_

"It'd probably do you both some good to be more open with each other about feelings and stuff. Don't tell Peter I said this, but he looks up to you. Like a father."

_"That's—Is that okay? Are you okay with that?"_

"Why wouldn't I be?"

_"I just don't want you to think I'm trying to take over or replace you or Ben."_

"Tony, you're not replacing anybody. His heart is big enough for you to squeeze in."

_"Yeah. He's a good kid."_

"The best."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and leans his forehead against the closed door. A tear leaks down his cheek and drops to his socked foot.

The crash is hard today. He feels numb yet feels all of the emotional pain he's been suppressing all day fall over him all at once. It's like the Adderall blocks it all out, then when it wears off, lets the pain flood in.

He needs more. Another pill would push the feelings and disgusting memories far far back into his mind so he could be happy for everyone for a little longer.

But he doesn't have any more on him. AJ wasn't at school that day. His girlfriend said he had the flu and would be back in a few days. The idea of not having any Adderall to carry him through the day makes Peter more scared and anxious than he'd like to admit.

What makes his anxiety even worse is the fact that he only has seven sleeping pills left. It'll last him until he goes back to the compound for the weekend, but then he'll have to go behind Bruce's back again. He has already stolen the bottle from the cabinet in his lab once, and he isn't sure if he could do it without getting caught again. He's lucky Bruce hasn't noticed the missing bottle. Although, to be fair, Bruce isn't always at the compound to notice.

And another thing: he knows he's losing weight _again_. Bring constantly either high on Adderall or knocked out by his sleeping pills basically wipes out his appetite. He still eats the granola bar Ned gives him at school, and he eats dinner with May, but he can't stomach breakfast or find room for anything else at lunch other than the granola bar. The only reason no one has noticed is because he's layering up on clothes.

Other than that, though, he's fine. His life is good. May and Tony are proud of him, so he must be doing something right.

•

AJ looks concerned. "You need more already?"

It's just him and Peter. They're outside at the back of the school again at the regular meet-up place. The girl who usually tags along with AJ isn't there, but her bag is. Frankly, Peter doesn't care where she is. He's there for one reason and one reason only.

Peter gives a stiff nod, shoving his hands in his pockets.

AJ's eyes narrow and he looks Peter over warily. He knows how desperate and fidgety he must look, but he has the money, so AJ shouldn't be worried.

"Shit, bro," he says, digging around in his bag. "How much you taking?"

"Not enough." Peter sniffs.

Fishing a bag out, AJ shakes his head. He hesitates handing it over. "Hey, you ain't getting, like, addicted, are you?"

"No," he says, impatient. "Why's it matter? I have the money."

"Yeah, yeah." Finally, AJ extends the bag out. Peter's eyes lock on it and he takes it with a quick movement. AJ leans his weight back on his left leg and says, "Take care of yourself, bro."

Peter doesn't reply, too focused on fishing the money out of his pocket to give to AJ. Once the exchange is complete, Peter hefts his backpack over his shoulder and trudges back around to the front to get to practice.

Michelle glares at him when he enters the library ten minutes late. Peter can't find it in himself to feel bad. The bag in his pocket makes it worth it.

•

The muffled voices of May and Tony waft through the shut door as Peter stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

It was supposed to be a good evening. May's been cooking all day for this dinner. As ironic as it may seem, they're celebrating Peter's recovery tonight. It was May's idea. Peter, high off his ass, enthusiastically agreed when she proposed the idea a few days ago. Now, though, he's wishing the woman who raised him to be better and the man he looks up to weren't in the other room waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. He's just glad Bruce was busy and couldn't accept the dinner invitation.

The high lasted for two days straight. Peter had never felt more alive. He was happy, talkative, energetic, and focused the whole time. He felt invincible. For a short moment, he even considered putting on the suit again.

He should have known the crash would be worse this time. It had been going too good for too long. It's like the higher he goes and the better he feels, the harder he falls back down to earth.

He has a 30 mg capsule in his hand. It's the one that AJ always gives him. He usually doesn't take any in the evening after his two in the morning because he wants to make his stash last as long as possible, but he needs something to lift him back up for a while to keep the evening light and happy.

These pills take a half hour to an hour to kick in, though, and Peter needs the effects _now_.

Setting the capsule on the counter, Peter uses what is left of his super-strength to crush it. The sight of the powder makes him pause.

He's seen it done in movies before. He knows what he's doing. And besides, it's just one pill.

Letting out a long, deep breath, Peter bends over with a finger pressing one nostril closed and sharply inhales the powder.

The rush is almost instantaneous.

It feels like someone grabs his strings and pulls him up straight like a puppet. Blinking a few times, he notices his dilated pupils in the mirror. The longer he stares, the more he realizes how dark pupils are and how deep they are, how they can fit _galaxies_.

The sound of May's laughter pulls him back to the present. He blinks again. The stars and galaxies and planets are gone. He's just in the bathroom. Right.

He quickly brushes the counter clean and flushes the toilet before washing his hands and then walking back into the dining room with May and Tony.

The lights are too bright and the smell of the meatloaf May made invades his senses.

Tony gives Peter a fond smile as he slides into his chair. "Get lost?"

Peter's eyes flicker to Tony's. For a second he just stares at him, suddenly noticing all the little details and wrinkles and flecks in the man's face, but then he realizes that he said something and processes the words as a joke.

He laughs. "Sure. Pass the ketchup, please?"

•

Days blend into weeks. He can't keep track of what day it is, what time it is, or what he's supposed to be doing. He just moves between different actions and plasters a smile on his face and makes jokes and answers questions he doesn't remember being asked.

He's got it handled, though. He does his homework as soon as it's given to him and turns it in when the teachers tell him to. He lets May hug him—he stops initiating the hugs, he doesn't really feel like touching her but it makes her happy so he sucks it up—and he goes to the compound on the weekend and banters back and forth with Tony in the lab.

AJ doesn't ask Peter any questions again. He just hesitantly hands over the pills in exchange for the money, looking almost guilty. Which is weird, because he's literally a drug dealer. This kind of stuff is basically in the job description. He can't feel guilty.

Whatever. Peter gets his pills, so he's happy.

Like usual, as soon as he has his hands on freshly bought pills and tucks them into his pocket before walking around the school to start practice, a sense of calmness, relief, and a hint of anticipation rush over him. He can't wait to down the pills that next morning and feel confident and happy.

Suddenly, he really can't wait. His fingers itch to open the bag and his throat swallows absentmindedly, imagining feeling the smooth pill cascade down his esophagus and plunge into his stomach. Or maybe he can snort it again. That worked a charm last time.

But he'll be even more late to practice. Michelle will be mad.

 _I'm already a little late,_ Peter reasons with himself. _Might as well not even show up._

Not able to wait until he got home, Peter takes a pill and waits for the euphoria to hit.

•

"Dinner's ready!"

He presses his face further into his bed and groans.

Everything is . . . everything is too _much_. His lights are out and he's lying in the darkness with his blankets pulled over his head and his legs curled into his chest. You know how terrible and noisy and infuriatingly bad middle school band performances are? How everything is off beat and too loud and uncontrolled and there's violent, clamorous instruments and beating drums that you can feel in your chest and replace your heartbeat? The clarinets pierce the air and the trumpets blare and the flutes reverberate.

That's what's going on in his head.

This is even worse than the last crash. He doesn't want to move, his muscles achy and his head pounding and his motivation nonexistent.

May knocks on his door before opening it. The creek of the door opening is like nails on a chalkboard. "Dinner's ready, sweetie. You feeling okay?"

Peter squeezes his closed eyes tighter. "Fine."

"You sure?"

"Just tired."

There's silence. Then, she asks softly, "Do you . . . Do you want to talk about something?"

Peter sits up. He tries not to glare, but by the look on May's face, he knows that his gaze is sharp. "No. I'm fine."

May leans against the doorframe. "You can talk to me, you know? If something's bothering you?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Peter spits, motioning to the door. " _Please_ leave me alone."

May doesn't budge. If anything, her feet seem to root into place. "What's going on? You've been doing so well lately."

"Have I?" Peter snaps, unable to control his tongue. He feels hot and his head hurts and everything _hurts_.

May's taken back. "What?"

"Nothing," Peter grumbles, wiping sweat off his forehead. He doesn't remember when he started sweating. "Leave me alone."

"I'm not just going to leave you alone, you're obviously upset," May argues. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" Peter shouts.

May throws her arms up. "Just _talk_ to me!"

"Fine!" Peter throws his covers off his legs and stands, his hands forming fists. "I'm tired and I don't want to talk to you, so please leave me the _fuck_ alone!"

"Peter Benjamin!"

"What? It's not like I'm all that _innocent,"_ Peter spits the word out like venom. His head spins. "You shouldn't be worried about my language, that's so _little_ compared to everything."

Hysterically, May asks, "What are you _talking_ about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that a thirty-year-old man took my virginity!" A tear falls off his cheek. He doesn't remember when he started crying, but he can't stop.

Horrified silence covers the space between then. Peter's chest is rising and falling rapidly whereas it looks as though May has stopped breathing altogether.

"What."

Peter blinks. He didn't see May's mouth move, but he heard her voice loud and clear.

When he doesn't answer, just keeps breathing hard, May repeats, louder, " _What?"_

Peter doesn't remember telling his legs to move, but the next thing he knows, he's stumbling towards his window and yanking it open. May's still frozen in place and isn't able to stop him before he throws himself out into the brisk evening air, catching himself with a poorly aimed web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe cliffhanger :)


	15. Pieces

The compound is quiet. Most might find it lonely, but Tony thrives when he's alone. In fact, he prefers the peace. The only exceptions are occasionally Pepper Potts (only occasionally because she tries to fix Tony and always has something for him to sign or do, but he secretly still loves her) and Peter Parker. No matter the time of day, Tony is glad to have the kid over, whether that be hanging out in the lab or just lounging around Tony's quarters. Sometimes, when Tony is in the kitchen making hot chocolate for the kid and coffee for himself, he'll look over at Peter spread across the couch watching a stupid TV show and smile. Although the curly-headed smart ass isn't his son, he's still his kid. He still cares about him and he feels that fatherly urge to embarrass him in front of his friends and to boast about him to his own friends and to worry about every little thing and to be so much better than his own father.

Howard Stark was a cold man and a cold father. Peter doesn't really have a father-figure in his life, so Tony hopes he is able to fill the slot while being the exact opposite of his late father.

Anyways, the point is that Tony doesn't mind eating dinner alone for the fourth day in a row. He finishes the delicious meal his private chef prepares and stores the leftovers in the fridge. He goes to pour himself a glass of water—he gave up alcohol a year after meeting Peter and deciding he wouldn't put the kid through having an alcoholic father-figure—when his phone rings.

He immediately answers the call when May Parker's name pops up.

"Hello—?" He doesn't even manage to finish the greeting before May's frantic voice cuts him off.

_"Tony, Peter—he, he just . . ."_

Tony straightens. "What? What's wrong with Peter?" Peter's been good lately, but Tony knows better than anyone how recovery isn't perfectly linear. Still, anxiety shoots through his chest.

 _"Did you know?"_ May accuses.

Tony's brow pulls forward. "Know what?"

There's a pause on the other end, then some shuffling. " _I don't—I can't even think. I don't know_ what _to think."_

Oh. _Oh_. Vaguely, Tony starts to connect some dots. Running a hand down his face, he cautiously says, "Is this about—"

_"It's about Peter telling me in a—a rage that he's gay and that he's had sex with a thirty-year-old man, and then he just ran out!"_

Tony stiffens. Something isn't adding up. The fact that Peter ran out isn't helping. "May, what exactly did Peter say?"

_"He said he lost his virginity to a thirty-year-old man, Tony. I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do."_

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Yes, he knew there were sexual advances, but that's all he knew. He only speculated how far it went, but now that it's more clear, he feels his stomach dip. Trying not to focus on _that_ , he says, "It's not—that's not exactly what happened. He didn't word that correctly."

May pauses. Tony can hear her breathing. " _So you did know."_

"It's not about that, May!" Tony exclaims before pressing his lips in a straight line and taking a breath. Speaking slowly, partially so May can understand each word and partially because it's physically hard to get the words out, Tony says, "The thirty-year-old Peter was talking about was Beck. I'm not sure how much he told you, but when he woke up without any memories, Beck lied to him and manipulated him into thinking he was an adult and that he was his husband. There were . . . sexual advances involved. He hadn't told me anything other than that. He didn't . . . it obviously wasn't consensual."

May's end of the phone goes deathly silent. Tony waits with baited breath, knowing the pain of hearing the news. He heard it first hand from Peter. It's absolutely heartbreaking and painful and makes you angry because _you weren't there to stop it._

He knows it's not his fault, nor does he think it's May's. Still, it's hard to not feel at least somewhat guilty and to blame. He knows from experience that focusing on the _I should have_ or _why didn't I_ just makes it worse and doesn't get you anywhere, but it's so easy to fall into. Especially when he's fucking _Iron Man_ and he's talking about how he failed to keep the kid safe to his aunt.

"I'm sorry," Tony says, just above a whisper, because what else is he supposed to say?

Before he can say anything else, the line drops as May hangs up. Tony releases a heavy breath and slams his phone onto the counter.

His eyes flicker to the window. Peter's out there somewhere, and he hopes he turns to him like he did after the last argument he had with his aunt. With a quick glance to his Rolex watch, Tony decides he's going to wait thirty minutes and if Peter doesn't show up, he's going to call May again and go out to find Peter himself. There's no telling what state of mind Peter's in, especially after the argument he just walked out of.

He sighs and takes a sip of his water, wishing it was whiskey.

•

The universe is huge. Massively huge. Undeniably, massively huge. And it's constantly expanding into something even bigger. The scale of space itself is growing. Peter can't even fully wrap his head around that.

The stars he's staring up into wade in a dark pool of black tar. Beyond that darkness is more darkness, and behind that is even more darkness, and then there's more darkness that's _expanding_.

He doesn't know how fast the process is. If galaxies can recede at speeds that exceed the speed of light, then surely that means the universe's expansion is also incredibly fast? Or would it be such a slow process that our brains can't even perceive any change is occurring?

He imagines the stars slowly sliding farther and farther from each other, like little crumbs someone scatters by blowing on.

With a sigh, Peter closes his eyes, focusing on the bliss pulsing through his veins.

Most kids wouldn't find themselves stargazing on top of the State of Liberty on a school night, but here Peter is, higher than the clouds. The depressive mood and exhaustion got the better of him when he arrived about forty minutes ago, and he was lucky he had some Adderall on him when he bailed from the storm brewing in the apartment.

It's gone now, though. Peter wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve and opens his eyes to continue staring at the stars he normally can't see from his apartment in Queens.

It's in that moment that he realizes that he isn't getting high for the happiness anymore. Because even though he feels on top of the world and like he can accomplish fucking anything while the drugs are running through his veins, he's not happy. He's just not focused on the bad things. He doesn't search for happiness in the pills, he's just searching for a little less pain.

Lying at the top of the Statue of Liberty and contemplating the expansion of the universe and suppressing his trauma, Peter doesn't think his life will ever get better than this.

•

He doesn't even know what time—or month, really—it is when Friday opens the front door of the compound for him. Head in the clouds, Peter allows his legs to carry him to the elevator and bring him to Tony's quarters.

As soon as the elevator door opens, he comes face-to-face with both May and Tony. May, who looks devastated and confused; and Tony, who looks sad and frustrated. Worry is a feature they both share.

Not sure what to say, Peter blurts with a loose tongue, "What time is it?"

May lurches forward and wraps her arms around Peter, crying and shaking and saying, "Don't ever run out like that again, especially after telling me something so heavy and—and important."

Peter's wide eyes find Tony's. The man crosses his arms and watches on with thinly veiled emotions.

May pulls back suddenly. Her glistening eyes pierce through Peter like knives. "Why didn't you _tell me?"_

He blinks. Looks behind her at Tony before focusing back on his aunt. He wracks his brain for what May could be talking about but comes up empty.

"What?"

"About what Beck—"

"Maybe we shouldn't do this right now," Tony steps in, placing a comforting hand on May's shoulder to calm the woman down before he could combust with hysteria. His warm brown eyes flicker to Peter, giving him a once-over.

Peter looks away, wiping under his nose just in case there was any powder lingering. He knows he looks like a mess—his hair is wind-blown and his cheeks are rosy from the wind and he's pale and skinny as hell—but he doesn't want Tony to see that. Tony, who has been by his side and offered his help and yet Peter kept ignoring it.

"Yeah, I agree," Peter pitches in, trying to seem as not-high as possible, but his words still run together at they fall pst his lips too fast. "I'm kinda tired and I don't really want to talk about how Beck made me give him blow jobs and how he sucked me off too or how we had sex a few times because, like, that would be awkward and I don't like thinking about it." 

May takes a startled step back, scandalized. Horror washes over Tony's face.

It takes a second for his own words to process in his ears. When they do, he says, "Fuck. Sorry. Didn't—I didn't mean to—"

He stumbles back, but the elevator doors have closed already and he catches himself on the smooth surface.

May clamps a hand over his mouth and turns away, shaking her head in disbelief. A tear cascades down her cheek.

"Friday," Tony says and Peter's attention flickers to him, "scan Peter. Report any abnormalities."

Peter blanches. "W-What? That's okay! Friday, you don't need—"

_"I have detected high levels of amphetamine and dextroamphetamine in Peter's bloodstream."_

May turns around, petrified, as Tony's eyes flash to Peter. The boy in question stumbles over his words as he tries to sputter out an excuse, but before he can grasp onto any full words, Tony says, " _Peter_." His voice is eerily calm.

May is the exact opposite. Her hands tangle into her hair and she exclaims, "You're on _drugs?!"_

Peter's mouth gapes open like a fish. "I-It's just Adderall."

" _Just_ Adderall?" May shrieks. Tony opens his mouth to interject, but May talks over him. "Do you even realize how dangerous it is to use prescription stimulant drugs to get high? You could have gotten a heart attack or seizures or died! It can kill you, Peter! Do you _want_ to die?"

"May!" Tony intervenes, holding out his hands placatingly.

May isn't having any of it. "What, Tony?! My boy is on drugs and I just found out that you two have been keeping it a secret that he's been raped!"

"Stop!" Peter shouts, clamping his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. He chokes back a sob. "Just stop! I'm sorry, okay? It's my fault that I didn't push him off and I didn't fight hard enough and I-I stole extra sleeping pills from Dr. Banner and I'm so fucking stupid and I'm making everything worse for everyone and I _should_ just die, there's no reason why I'm—"

May's broken sob cuts him off. He immediately shuts his mouth, realizing he just made it worse again. _Way to go, Peter. Can't stop fucking up, can you?_

"Sorry," Peter rambles, unable to just shut up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—" He turns around and presses the elevator button.

He hears Tony say something to May as he steps into the elevator and then doors close, separating him from the two most important people in his life, whose lives he keeps ruining. Whom he keeps letting down.

He focuses on his breaths and presses the down button. However, nothing happens. With a frown, Peter presses it again.

"Friday? W-Why can't I leave?" He shoves his shaky hands into his pockets.

_"Boss has instructed me to keep you on this floor."_

Peter's heart drops. _Oh_. "Am I . . . Am I trapped in here?" A prickle of anxiety shoots down his spine.

_"No. You are able to open the doors whenever you'd like."_

He lets out a deep breath and leans his back against the wall, sliding until he's sitting on the floor of the elevator with his legs pulled up to his chest. He closes his eyes and lays his forehead to his knees. He just wallows in the mess that he is. The mess he has made himself.

He isn't sure how long passes—the Adderall tends to warp time—before he hears the doors slide open. He doesn't look up. Just listens to footsteps as they step into the space and eventually stop, replaced by shuffling and a huff of breath as the person—undeniably Tony—sitting a few feet beside him.

He can't hear May. She must be somewhere else, cooling down. _Or she left_ , Peter's inner voice taunts. _She's sick and tired of your bullshit and finally left._

"I'm sorry."

It's spoken in a whisper. It hangs there, in the space between Peter and Tony, until Tony sighs and says, "It's going to be okay."

"Aunt May hates me," Peter murmurs into his knees.

"She's just trying to wrap her mind around everything," Tony replies. Pauses. At first Peter isn't sure if he's going to talk again, but then he says, "It's no secret, what I used to do. My name was in the tabloids all the time with the shit I was getting into."

Peter doesn't respond. He doesn't know how to.

He hears Tony exhale deeply. "I'm trying to say that I understand, to a degree, why. I'm not going to judge you. I'm the last person to judge you."

He pauses again. This time, Tony doesn't break the silence. Peter inhales the thick silence as it settles in his lungs.

"I keep making things worse," Peter says, nearly choking on the silence and guilt and shame and anger towards himself. "I don't—I don't know how to stop screwing up."

"You ask for help," Tony says, his voice soft. Peter finally lifts his head and sets his chin on his knee to look at Tony. The man is looking back at him with the softest look he's ever seen on him. "You ask for help, that's how you fix things. You'll keep messing up—that's how this goes—but you aren't supposed to be alone when you slip up."

Peter chews on his bottom lip and looks to the floor. "I'm sorry for what I said. About Beck." A shameful blush reddens his cheeks. "I didn't mean to say those things."

"It's okay."

"I didn't want you or May to know," Peter continues, picking at his nails. "I know you knew a little, but I didn't want you to know how, like, bad it was."

Tony nods. "It's not your job to shelter your aunt and I. It's not good to keep it all inside, either. We just want to help you."

"I know."

"I don't think you do," Tony sighs heavily. Peter glances at him. "I just want you to trust me—or May, just one of us—so you don't bottle everything up and use unhealthy coping mechanisms, like giving yourself concussions or abusing drugs." Tony pauses, thoughtful. "Do you . . . Is there anything else you do?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Tony presses. "Because I'm serious when I say that I need to know. It's for your own safety."

"I'm sure, Mr. Stark," Peter says, leaning his head back against the wall with frustration. "I don't—I don't cut myself, if that's what you're getting at. Or drink."

He nods. Then, he carefully asks, "You don't, like, starve yourself or anything, right? It's just that you've been losing the weight you had finally started to gain back."

"I don't have an eating disorder," Peter mutters. First Ned, now Tony? He didn't think he looked too unhealthily frail, just on the slim side. "The Adderall suppresses my appetite, and I'm . . . I'm high a lot, so." He shrugs.

Tony nods again. "When did you start taking Adderall?"

Peter looks up at the ceiling in thought. The light shines down like the sun and he finds himself subconsciously counting the tiles in the ceiling. Time is still weird, especially since he's currently high and because he's been high more often than not during the past . . . week? Weeks? Month, maybe?

"What's the date?" he asks.

"October first."

 _October?_ Peter tries to hide his surprise. He remembers the start of September as if it were a few days ago.

"I'm not completely sure," he says, mentally going over what he remembers. "A month, maybe?"

"You said you stole some of those sleeping pills Bruce made you," Tony says, and Peter nods sheepishly. "I assume that means you've been abusing those, too?" He nods again. "How long has that been going on?"

Peter's brow furrows. "I don't . . . I'm not sure."

"Before or after you started taking Adderall?"

"Before," Peter replies. Feeling the need to explain himself as Tony studies him, he adds, "The sleeping pills didn't . . . They did work, I didn't get nightmares and they helped me go to sleep, but before I'd fall asleep there was always . . . I couldn't move my body, like it was too heavy, and it freaked me out 'cuz sometimes I could, like, feel him? And the pills made it so I couldn't move before I fell asleep, so. Yeah."

Tony frowns. "So you started taking more?"

"Yeah." He swallows dryly. "I started taking three a night, then four. B-But then I started getting, like, really tired during the day. Fell asleep at school 'n stuff. The, the Adderall made it better. Also helped me focus on other things, not what Beck . . ." He trails off. Sniffs. "I don't like thinking about it."

Tony pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "Okay. Thank you for telling me."

"I should've told you before," Peter mumbles. "Shouldn't have even done it in the first place."

"I won't argue with you on that," Tony says, "but you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, especially after everything that's happened. You're allowed to make mistakes, but like I said before, I'd like it if you didn't go through it alone."

"Okay." He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. In a small voice, he asks, "What happens next?"

"Well," Tony says, folding his hands on his lap, "I think you should start by getting some sleep."

Peter's eyes dart to Tony's. "Are you going to make me only take one pill?"

"I'm not going to make you do anything, let's make that clear," Tony asserts. "I suggest not taking any tonight, actually. If there's still some kinks to work out, then we should give it some time for Bruce to fix the issue. In the meantime, you think you could fall asleep without them?"

Fear shoots down his spine. "I don't—I don't know. I mean, I'm not tired at all." He isn't sure how long it's been since he snorted the Adderall on the Statue of Liberty, but he knows he still has quite a while before he comes down. "And if I did fall asleep, I'd just wake up from nightmares."

 _Please let me take four tonight_ , he internally begs. _Just one more time. I need them._

"You can't just not sleep, kiddo," Tony says.

Trying to conceal his eagerness, Peter suggests, "I could take four again? Just for tonight?"

"I don't think so."

"But—"

"You can't be so dependent on them," Tony says, and Peter sighs. "I'm serious. I know you're doing it because you feel like you need them, but it isn't safe. I don't want you overdosing."

"I wouldn't overdose," Peter tries. "I've done it a thousand times, if it was going to make me OD, it would have already."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is."

Peter shrugs. "It's true."

"Doesn't help, though."

Peter frowns and looks away. As much as he doesn't like the idea of sleeping without the pills, he knows there's no way he could convince Tony to let him, nor would there be any way he could sneak them since they're at the apartment, so he'd have to leave the compound to go get them. "Fine."

Tony raises his brow, surprised Peter gave in so easily. "Good. Not that I don't trust you or anything, but do you have anything on you? Sleeping pills, Adderall, or anything else?"

At the mention of it, Peter feels the bag in his hoodie pocket weigh down against him. There's only one pill in there, which he was saving for the next day. The pill he snorted earlier was also for morning, but it was an emergency.

He isn't planning on taking anything else that night—or day, that still wasn't clear—so he doesn't see the harm in pretending like it isn't in his pocket. Besides, Tony would just take it away.

"No."

Tony narrows his eyes at Peter's hesitance. "I'm going to ask you one more time, and I'll take your word for it. Do you have anything on you?"

Peter levels his gaze with Tony's. With more conviction, he says, "No. I swear."

Tony's wary look lingers before he nods. "Okay. I'm going to trust you."

Peter nods, too. "Thank you."

"No problem, kiddo." Knees popping as he stands, Tony says, "May's in the guest bedroom. She probably wants to talk, and you probably should clear some stuff up, but neither of us are going to force you. I'm sure she'll be glad you talked to one of us, at least."

Peter runs a hand through his messy hair. "I don't really feel like talking, but I want her to know. She doesn't deserve to be in the dark."

"You want me to talk to her for you?"

Peter sheepishly nods, biting his thumbnail. "You'd do that? Is that okay?"

"Of course." Tony smiles, but it's not completely genuine. "Go get some rest. I'll catch May up to speed."

Peter tries to get some rest, he really does. He turns off he lights, burrows under the covers, closes his eyes, and everything. The problem is that he doesn't know how to fall asleep naturally anymore, and being high on speed isn't helping. He's wide awake.

That being said, he knows he should be sleeping. According to his phone, it's nearly 3:00 in the morning. He should have been sleeping hours ago. If he had his pills, he could instantly fall asleep.

But he doesn't have them. He doesn't have them and he feels weird lying in bed conscious and he just stares at the ceiling praying that, by some miracle, he'd fall asleep, preferably without any nightmares or sexual dreams.

His prayers aren't answered. Sleep doesn't hit him like a bullet like he's used to. It doesn't even creep up on him. It just doesn't happen.

He tries counting sheep. He tries going through the periodic table. He does that three times and then starts again. After the fourth time through, he considers banging his head against the floor until he knocks himself out, but he's sure Friday would rat him out.

So, he just gives up and turns the lights on. If he isn't going to sleep, he might as well be doing something productive.

That's why, at 5:30 in the morning, James Rhodes finds Peter punching and kicking a punching bag with sweat sticking his t-shirt to his back and his forehead glistening in the training room lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm not being annoying when I ask for comments/reactions/feedback/criticism, because I really really like hearing what y'all have to say lol. Like, my heart does a little fluttery thing when I see I've got a comment in my inbox. Idk I just love reading what you guys think. (Even if it's criticism or hate or a rant! Lay it on meeee!)
> 
> Also, how do y'all feel about the little section of Tony's POV? Should I keep it to just Peter's perspective or is POV shifting something you want to see more of?
> 
> also also i just realized i started writing this book two weeks ago lmao time flies
> 
> Anyways,,,, yeah. Hope you liked this chapter!


	16. Wreckage

Okay, so Peter has experienced a come down before from the uppers. He's crashed and he has felt that ache and that downward spiral as his head gets dunked under dark water and he just drowns.

This is _not_ a crash. This is . . . he doesn't know what exactly this is; withdrawal from the sleeping meds, he assumes, but he doesn't remember feeling like this when he went through withdrawal from the drugs Beck gave him when he was first brought back after those two months he fights to forget.

This isn't just feeling super depressed and tired and unmotivated and achy. His head pounds, his feet hurt, his stomach is queasy, and his chest is tight.

He tries fighting it, imagines the punching bag is his pain as he kicks and hits the hell out of it. Had it not been one of the reinforced bags meant for enhanced individuals, it probably would have been knocked down five times over already.

He's so caught up in literally punching the pain away that he doesn't even hear the training room doors open.

It isn't until the person speaks that Peter even realizes they're there.

"What'd that bag ever do to you?"

Peter's fists drop and he spins, blinking when the floor tilts under his feet. When his eyes focus back in on the world, he realizes Rhodey is staring at him, his defined arms crossed over his muscular chest.

"Oh, hey," Peter breathes, lungs erratically filling and deflating. "Didn't . . . didn't hear you come in."

Rhodey looks unimpressed and vaguely worried, which makes Peter wonder a few things:

1\. Why is he here?  
2\. Did Tony tell him about his issues?  
3\. How much did Tony tell him?

Peter knows that Tony knows Peter isn't proud of what he's doing to himself, of what he has let himself become, so he wouldn't spill everything to Rhodey. However, Rhodey and Tony go _way_ back; way before Pepper and way before Happy. Tony has told Peter himself that he tells the man everything and trusts him with his life.

Basically, Peter doesn't know how much Rhodey knows. And that scares him. It's even worse because he's sweating a lot, more than he normally would during a workout. It's sticky and hot and it's hard to breathe.

Nodding at the punching bag rocking back and forth from Peter's last kick, Rhodey asks, "How long have you been at it?"

For a second Peter hears _how long have you been an addict?_ and he freezes and his heart stops but then he processes the words and realizes what the man actually said and lets out a relieved laugh that probably comes out a little too loud. Okay, it definitely comes out too loud.

"Not too long," Peter replies vaguely. He doesn't even know what time it is, so he can't be lying if he doesn't know, right? That's how it works?

Rhodey nods. His dark eyes give Peter a quick scan from head-to-toe. "How much sleep did you get?"

"A few hours." Okay, so that's a lie and he knows it. There's no making excuses for that.

"Uh huh," Rhodey says, definitely 100% not believing Peter. He glances at the ceiling. "Friday?"

Peter already knows he's screwed before the damn AI starts to talk.

_"Peter hasn't slept since arriving at the tower at 12:40 A.M. this morning, and has been working out since 3:30 A.M."_

Peter's mouth opens, ready to defend himself or lie some more, but the deadpan look Rhodey gives him makes him shut his mouth and sheepishly duck his head.

"That's what I thought." Rhodey nods to the door behind him. "C'mon, kid."

Keeping his head down, Peter makes his way to where Rhodey's standing. When the man starts walking out of the gym, he wordlessly follows. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. He wipes it away with the back of his hand before shoving his hands in his sweatpants pockets. His steps almost falter when he feels the plastic of a bag. It hits him, suddenly, that it's the only pill he has with him at the compound. He has two more pills hidden in his nightstand at the apartment, but he isn't sure when he's going back there.

Wait, is he even going to school? Doesn't it start in, like, three hours?

He wipes his forehead again. Why is it so hot?

The heat just makes the ache in his bones and muscles worse and makes his head pound harder and the floor under him tilt.

"Guess who I found working his little ass of in the training room since 3:30?"

Peter blinks, looking up. Oh. He's in Bruce's lab. When did that happen? He swears he just stepped out of the training room a second ago.

Tony and Bruce are sitting at a desk, empty plates between them. Bruce is doing something on his laptop with his glasses perched low on his nose. Tony's wearing a different set of clothes from when Peter last saw him, but they're still jeans and a t-shirt.

Peter wants to disappear as Bruce and Tony's attention focus on him. He wipes his sweaty palms off on his sweatpants. "Hey, Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner." His voice sounds weird in his ears.

Tony heaves out a heavy, exasperated breath. "I thought I told you to sleep, not exercise."

Peter squirms a little. It's worse than being ridiculed by the principal in the school office. He glances from Rhodey standing beside him with his arms crossed, to Bruce watching him with a calculating gaze, and then to Tony looking absolutely exhausted.

"I, uh," Peter stammers, clearing his dry throat. "I told you I can't sleep without the pills." Never mind the fact that he was high on uppers so he wasn't tired at all, but he's not about to say that in front of Rhodey.

Tony purses his lips, then shoots Rhodey a look. After a second-long silent conversation between the two, Rhodey leaves, saying he's making eggs and toast if anyone wants any.

As soon as the man leaves his side, the pounding in his head worsens. The lights scorch him from above and he shoots a hand out to catch himself on the wall before he could face-plant.

Bruce and Tony shoot out of their seats, but when they tower over Peter and block the light, he just feels crowded and trapped and like he's dying.

Vaguely, he realizes their mouths are moving, but he can't hear anything. His head is underwater, but he's so _hot_ and his tongue is sandpaper. His whole body feels like he just ran ten miles through the desert.

"'M fine," he says, because he thinks that's what he's supposed to say.

A hand wraps around his bicep, and Peter doesn't have to look up to know that it's Beck _he's back his hands are on me his hands hands hands hands—_

He thinks he hears someone say something about withdrawal. His veins scream for something other than his own blood to pump. It'll take the headache away, take his the pain away.

"Need," Peter whispers, squeezing his eyes shut as he is lowered to the ground by the hands on him. He wants to scream that he's being torn open and ripped apart, but all that comes out is a wheeze and whispered begs. "Need, p-please."

"Need what?" he hears Tony ask somewhere by his ear. "What do you need, bud?"

Peter blinks his eyes back open. Squinting against the blinding light, he meets Tony's worries gaze and whispers, "Pills. They'll—They'll help."

Tony looks to Bruce, a desperate look on his face. "What do we do?"

"Wait it out," Bruce replies, wincing a little at the idea himself. Flashing Peter a look of sympathy, he says, "We can mitigate the pain, though. How much pain are you in?"

Peter cradles his head. "Head kinda hurts." His stomach lurches and he stifles a groan.

"His metabolism is making him go through withdrawal a lot faster," Bruce explains to Tony after Tony says something Peter isn't concentrated enough to catch. He leans his head back against the wall and listens to Bruce continue, "Which is good because it'll be over faster, but bad because it'll probably hit him harder."

"Can't we, like, wean him off of it?" Tony suggests, and Peter's heart leaps.

 _Yes_ , his veins scream. _Just give me a little more._

"He's already going through it," Bruce says. Annoyance flashes in Peter. How could Bruce deny him something that would make it all better? Does he like seeing him in pain? "It'll be over faster if we just wait it out."

"Please," Peter whimpers. He doesn't care how pathetic he sounds. "Please, just—just one pill."

Sadness floods Bruce's face. "I'm sorry, Peter. This is for your own good, okay? We're going to help you feel as comfortable as we can to get you through this."

He doesn't _want_ to go through it. He just wants it to go back to how it was before when he was taking four sleeping pills a night and then two or three Adderalls a day. Yeah, sometimes he'd crash and sometimes he'd talk too fast and sometimes he would forget things, but it _worked_.

Everything moves in slow motion, yet his mind has a hard time keeping up. Tony leads him to a bed in the medbay while Bruce leaves to do . . . something. He didn't catch what he left to do, but when he returns, he's rolling in an IV pole with a bag of clear liquid attached to it. Tony's sitting at his side in his desk chair.

Peter's eyes follow Bruce's movements. The man is explaining what he's doing, but Peter doesn't listen and just watches as he brings the IV catheter to the inside of his elbow. That's when Peter realizes, with a jolt, that he isn't wearing a shirt. When did that happen? Panicked, he glances at Tony. Did Tony take it off of him? Did he—did he do something to him?

"Where's my shirt?" Peter asks, trying—and probably failing—to keep the fear from his voice.

"You were tugging at it," Tony says. He's leaning his elbows on his knees. "How are you feeling?"

"Not good." He closes his eyes and tries to focus on anything other than the pain or the heat or— _ow_. Peter's eyes open and dart to the IV Bruce is sticking into the pale, tender skin of his inner elbow. His vision swims and his stomach lurches again, so he closes his eyes. "Might throw up."

"That's normal. Tony, you got a trash bin?"

"Uh . . . Yep, right here."

"School?" Peter asks, then adds, "Where's Aunt May?"

"No school today, bud," Tony replies. "Your aunt'll probably wake up soon, she spent the night in the guest room, remember?"

_Oh yeah._

"Do you want her?" Tony asks after a moment. "I can go see if—"

"No," he says, peering through heavy eyelids at Tony. "I don't—I don't want her to see me." His mouth fills with saliva. He swallows. "Like this. Gross and—and it'll make her sad."

His stomach churns again. This time, he feels the stomach acid rising and can already taste it.

"'M gonna throw up."

"Now?"

Before he can respond, Peter's leaning over and hurling the small amount of digested food he had in his stomach. Tony curses under his breath and pushes himself out of his chair.

"You know I have a bin, right?" Tony says, his voice lacking his snark and sarcasm. The little attempt for lightness falls flat.

Peter lies back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when he's done puking his guts out. "Sorry."

"It was a joke. I don't care about the floor."

He hears Tony moving, probably to clean up the mess. Peter cringes. How embarrassing is it to have _Tony Stark_ cleaning up your puke? That's the last thing he should be doing.

Actually, the last thing he should be doing is staying by a stupid kid's side while the kid in question fucks everything up by getting himself addicted to drugs.

Why is Tony still here? What does he have to gain from any of this? Peter is just some broken kid from Queens who can't even function properly anymore. At this point, he isn't sure he wants to function properly. Well, he'd _like_ to be normal, but he doesn't want to lose his system of sleeping pills at night and drugs in the morning because he knows it works well enough to keep the pain from eating him alive.

A hand carding through his hair startles Peter out of his thoughts. His head turns, eyes meeting Tony's. Tony offers a small, strained smile and wipes Peter's sweaty bangs from his forehead.

"This okay?" he asks.

Confused why Tony would even want to touch him when he's so gross, so impure, and so utterly broken, he just nods.

•

Thankfully, Bruce was right about the rate of which Peter would go through withdrawal. He throws up one a total of two times and receives some pain meds for the headache and body aches. Now, a day later, he's just a little disoriented, tired as hell, and in a low mood. He doesn't really remember much of the past day, but May seems to be walking on eggshells around him still. After she woke up the other day and visited Peter in his room with the IV in the crook of his arm and the putrid smell of his puke in the air, she cried. A lot. It made Peter cry, too.

Another thing that lingers is the sinking feeling that can't be filled by anything other than stupid pills. He swallows nothing but salvia a few times to try and satisfy his craving, but it doesn't work.

He's at the dinner table with May and Tony. They keep looking at him, like they're checking to make sure he won't blow up or combust or die all of a sudden, and they think they're doing a good job at hiding their looks. They're not. Peter can literally feel their stares.

He doesn't eat much of the food on his plate, wary of the lingering nausea, and Tony and May seem to let it slide for now.

He's not out of the woods yet, he knows this. It has been two days—too long—since he's been high on Adderall. Those urges are much stronger than the craving for the sleeping pills. It's like a hunger, but less in his stomach and more in his mouth and his throat. He can feel it in his chest every time he breathes. It's a gaping hole of desire. And he has the antidote. It's hidden in his room. If he could just leave May and Tony and go to his room, he could take it and feel better. The hole would be filled.

He swallows his saliva again.

"I don't think I can eat any more," Peter speaks into the silence of the dining room.

May frowns, and while Tony doesn't look too happy about it either, he says, "That's okay. You made a good dent into the food."

Peter nods. Turns his attention to his hands in his lap.

May sighs and lowers her fork to her plate. "Shouldn't he way a little more, even if he isn't hungry? Bruce said his metabolism needs at least 4000 calories a day, and he—"

"He also said it'll take time," Tony adds. He glances at Peter, who tries not to make it so obvious that he wants to leave the table.

He bites his nail to distract himself from thinking of that pill in his desk drawer.

"You think you could get some sleep without any sleeping pills tonight?" Tony asks.

Peter looks up. The immediate answer is _no_ , but the sad look in May's eyes makes his say, "I'll try."

"If you can't fall asleep, you can wake me up, sweetie," May offers with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Maybe we can put on a movie or something to help. What's that movie you mentioned hating because it was boring?" Her fingernails tap against the table a few times in thought. " _The Great Gatsby_ , right? We could watch that."

"No," Peter blurts, his voice too loud. May frowns. "I mean . . . I don't want to watch that movie."

May nods, visibly confused. Peter's eyes shift to Tony and he pauses at the conflicted look on the man's face.

"Why?"

Peter looks down at his hands as he picks at his cuticles. "I, uh, I don't like that movie?"

Tony doesn't back down. "Why not?"

"I just don't like it."

Tony leans forward in his seat, propping his elbows on the table. A spike of anxiety shoots through Peter when Tony's eyes narrow slightly and he says, "Because you used to watch it with Beck, right?"

May looks between Tony and Peter. "What?"

"I just don't like it," Peter says, trying but failing to be firm. "Why can't that be the reason?"

"Because it's not the truth." Tony's brows knit together. "You can't . . . you need to talk about it. I know I need to respect your boundaries, but you can't bottle it up. That's what gave us the drug problem to begin with. I don't want to see you go through that pain again."

"You don't even have to talk to _us_ ," May pitches in. "We can get you a therapist."

Peter looks between them, betrayed. They obviously had a talk about this before dinner or something. It sounds too planned.

"No."

He doesn't even realize he's said it until May asks, "Why not? You can try it out, and if you don't like it, then—"

"I said no," Peter repeats, firmer than before. He can barely even open up to them, how could he ever open up to a complete stranger? "I don't want to."

Tony runs a hand down his face. "Pete—"

"You said you wouldn't make me do anything I didn't want to," Peter accuses, glaring at the man across from him. "And I don't want to see a therapist."

"I know, but can't we at least talk about—"

Peter stands, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. Wordlessly, he turns and walks out of the room.

"Do we follow him?" he hears Tony whisper behind him.

"He needs space," May replies, though she sounds just as unsure as Tony. "I'll check up on him later."

Peter stops listening in when he makes it to his room. Shutting the door and locking it, he wastes no time and takes two long strides to his desk. He rummages through the drawer until he pulls out his pencil case, then unzips it to find the pill.

If he can't fill one craving, he might as well satisfy the other. 

To ensure Friday doesn't snitch on him, he goes to the his en-suite bathroom, kneels in the tub with the shower curtain pulled closed, and sets the pill on the edge of the tub. A thrill of adrenaline and anticipation rushes through him as he crushes the pill. Not even stopping to think about what he's doing, he leans over and snorts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the going to sleep at 3:30 am and waking up at 5:00 am to work out before attending morning classes for me
> 
> (don't mind me, just calling myself out on my shit lol)
> 
> I apologize for how shitty this chapter turned out lmao. It took me a little longer to write because I don't feel very confident in my ability to write about withdrawal even though that's a pretty big step in Peter's recovery & I've been having trouble sleeping lately. So yeah. I hope you aren't too disappointed in this chapter though :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is sticking with this story and still reading!! I can't express my appreciation enough. Feel free to comment anything you want to see in future chapters, I may or may not incorporate some of your ideas into the story :)


	17. Difference

It's quiet.

Peter peers out of his bedroom doorway down the hall, glancing at May and Tony's shut doors on either side of him. From the little sliver of space between the door and the floor, Peter can tell that their rooms are dark. They must not be awake yet.

 _That's odd_ , he thinks with a frown and walks down the hall. His socked feet pad against the cool floor as he makes his way to the kitchen.

The window that expands over the entirety of the wall in the living area allows the natural light of the early morning to seep in and illuminate the room. The sky is a watercolor painting with splashes of vibrant oranges and striking yellows, some puffy pink cotton candy clouds stretched across.

Peter steps down from the kitchen and steps towards the white couch. Glancing around as if someone's about to jump out at him, he takes a seat.

As soon as he's relaxed into the cushions, a hand clamps down on his upper thigh. He jumps and whirls around to come face-to-face with Beck.

The man is sitting beside him, his meaty hand gripping onto Peter's thigh in a vice-like grip, his stormy blue eyes piercing into his own. There's blood seeping through the fingers digging into his leg.

Fear grips his heart. Beck's here. Beck's _here_. His mind goes to the silence of the compound and he looks to the blood on Beck's hands and he connects the dots.

Panic grips his throat.

Then, with his other hand, Beck literally grips onto Peter's throat. He makes a choking noise and tries to wrestle out of the man's hold, but his muscles feel like jelly. He can't _move_.

"Miss me, princess?" His low, breathy voice sends fear to shoot through his body and Peter freezes.

 _No_. No more freezing, he needs to _fight back._ He needs to make sure May and Tony are okay.

Beck leans over Peter's body, laying his on top of the boy's, his lips coming close to his jaw. Peter jerks away and kicks under him.

"Get off!" he shouts, his voice coming out high and wheezy from the blood-coated hand cutting off his air supply. 

His eyes squeeze shut when Beck's lips attach to his jaw and suck. The man's tongue and teeth on his skin bring back way too many memories Peter doesn't want to face. Skin on skin, tongue on skin, sweat on skin, private parts on private parts, semen on his tongue.

His stomach lurches.

_Focus focus focus–_

With a burst of strength, Peter brings his knees to his chest before kicking out, launching Beck off of him. He gasps in a lungful of air and coughs off the side of the couch.

Before Beck can get up, Peter scrambles off the couch and bolts to the hallway. "MAY! TONY!"

He slams May's door open first. It hits the wall with a loud _smack_ and cracks the drywall. Peter's eyes zero-in on her still form laying in the middle of her bed. Flicking on the light switch, his breath is caught in his throat.

There's blood. _So_ much blood. She's laying on top of the covers and her eyes are open and lifeless and staring straight at Peter, unblinking, and there is blood oozing from her abdomen and her neck and—

He stumbles backwards into the hall, swallowing back bile, and sprints into Tony's room.

It's empty. He turns the lights on, but he doesn't find his dead body like he expected. It's just . . . It's like no one even slept here.

A hand wraps around his arm and shoves him onto the bed. Peter tries to push himself up, but a weight on his back smooshes him into the mattress. Hot breath blows against his ear.

"Did you really think you could escape me, darling?"

"You killed her!" Peter screams, tears pouring down his hot face. "Where's Mr. Stark? What did you _do?"_

"Mr. Stark, you say?" Beck says. His voice is oddly calm as he keeps a firm grip on Peter's head and keeps it pressed against the mattress. In this position, with Beck's body leaning over Peter's, he can feel the man's erection pressing into his backside. Beck gives a dry thrust that has Peter whimpering. "Do you want Mr. Stark, darling? Is that what the princess wants?"

Beck's fingers comb back his Peter's curls like a dog.

The door slams open. Peter's eyes shoot to it, a surge of hope blossoming in his chest that he'll be saved, and he almost cries with joy when Tony walks in. Only, when Tony's eyes fall on Beck dry humping Peter, he doesn't do anything but smirk.

"M-Mr. Stark?" Peter whimpers.

Beck lets out a laugh and releases his hold on Peter. Peter turns around so that he isn't laying on his stomach and stares up at Tony with glassy eyes.

Why isn't Tony helping him? Why isn't he throttling Beck? Why is he staring at him like a piece of meat?

In a broke whisper, Peter says, "Tony?"

That sends Tony into action. In one fluid moment, he's on Peter, pouncing like a lion on its prey. Peter let's out a sob and pushes frantically at Tony's chest _but he doesn't move_. He's trapped under him as the man—his mentor, his _father figure—_ rips Peter's pajama pants down and starts grinding down on him.

"Stop!" Peter tries trough his tears and erratic breaths. "Get—Get off!"

"Such a pretty boy," Tony breathes out in a husky voice, then moans. Peter holds back from throwing up.

He doesn't know where Beck went, but, frankly, doesn't care because Tony is reaching down and pulling his pants and boxers down and then he rips off Peter's boxers. Not wanting to see what's being done to his body, he squeezes his eyes shut. A tear rolls down his temple.

"Please, please don't," he whispers, already feeling himself give in again. " _Please_."

•

His eyes snap open. Lights immediately blind his vision, and then he's leaning over and heaving.

A hand lands on his back. His mind screams at him and his arm juts back, his elbow making contact with something that cries out. The hand leaves his body and his mind finally starts to clear. 

Wiping the putrid vomit off his lips with his sleeve, Peter falls back into the couch as his eyes flutter closed.

Wait. Couch?

His mind flashes back to Beck grabbing him on the couch and he jolts up, eyes wide as he trips over his feet to _get_ _away away away._

In a flash, Peter is in the kitchen and yanking open a cabinet. He pulls everything out in swift movements and crawls inside the empty cabinet to curl into a ball and close the door. Darkness encompasses the cramped space. The walls dig into his shoulder blades and the top flattens his curls against his head. Resting his face in his knees, he tries to wrap his head around reality.

It was . . . it was just a dream.

_Then why was he on the couch?_

But Tony wouldn't do that.

_How does he know that for sure, though?_

Beck is in prison.

_Is he?_

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down to stifle a sob that threatens to escape. It feels like he's back to when he couldn't tell what was real, back when his mind was scrambled and he second guessed everything.

Muffled voices from the other room reach his ears. Scared he'll hear Beck's voice or hear Tony talking about how he's _such a pretty boy_ , Peter sticks his fingers in his ears.

Everything is muted. The only sounds that he can register are the drumming of his heart and his shallow breaths.

Peter jolts at the sound of a knock on the closed cabinet door and unplugs his ears. Peering at it warily, he stays silent, waiting. Watching. Expecting someone to wrench it open, yank him out, and hurt him.

That doesn't happen.

Instead, a gentle voice says, "You in there, Pete? It's just me." As an afterthought, the voice adds, "Tony. It's just Tony."

Peter holds his breath. Rapid-fire images of Tony on top of him and touching him flash before his eyes.

 _Go away_ , he urges, blinking back hot tears. _Leave me alone._

He hears a shuffle and movement, then silence. Then, Tony says, "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you, bud."

Tony's words are met with more silence as Peter closes his eyes and tries to push the filthy images out of his head. He tries to separate them from the man outside the cabinet door.

_You're safe._

Is he? He can't know for sure.

"If you're hiding in there because you're upset about what happened with May, she's fine. Bruce is taking care of it."

Peter's eyes snap open. In a croaky whisper, he repeats, "Aunt May?" She's alive?

 _Of course she's alive. Stupid_.

Wait, what happened to her, then? Why's she with Bruce?

"Yeah, she's right as rain. Bruce doesn't think he'll need to reset her nose or anything."

Peter lets that sink in. Reset her nose . . . So someone hit her? His mind flashes back to when a hand laid on his back and he elbowed something and then it was gone. He didn't just elbow some _thing_ , he elbowed some _one_. May.

He hurt Aunt May.

His heart plummets into his stomach.

_Way to screw things up again, Peter. Always have to make things worse, don't you?_

His head bangs against the wall. It makes a dull thud, but it doesn't really hurt. Before he can repeat the action, Tony cuts in, "Hey, none of that. I'll let you have your space, but if you hit your head again, I'm going to have to intervene whether you like it or not."

Even thinking about Tony seeing him, and him seeing Tony, twists his stomach into knots. He knows what happened wasn't real but it _felt so real._

Twisting his fingers in his hair and tugging until it hurts, Peter says in a quiet voice, "Go away. Please."

"I can't have you bashing your head in there as soon as I walk away," Tony replies. "Are you . . . Was it a nightmare?"

Peter stares at the cabinet door separating them.

"I assume you didn't hit your Aunt in the face on purpose," Tony continues. Voice softening, he says, "I'm here. For you. Just, know that you aren't alone." A long moment of silence passes before Tony breaks it again. "You want to talk about it?"

No. That's probably the last thing he wants to do. He can't—he can't just tell Tony that he had a dream where he raped him. He might get the wrong idea, or he might feel guilty somehow, or he'll . . . he'll just stop believing Peter will get better. Peter has accepted the fact a long time ago. He's as good as dead. He's just a broken person living in the shell of who he used to be and he _hates_ it.

He wants to be Spider-Man again. To swing through New York, to save people's lives, to take selfies with tourists, to help the common folk out. He wants to be a friend to Ned again. To be a normal high school student. To be a kid. To not be afraid of shadows or sleeping. To not crave drugs.

He wants to be Peter again.

So, no, Peter doesn't want to talk about it, but he's so damn tired of being a stranger to himself that he just bursts into tears and sobs into his folded arms over his knees.

"Peter?" Tony's voice has a bit of a concerned edge to it.

Muffled by his arms and the tightness of his throat, Peter says, "Don't hate me, please, but I—I couldn't control it, I didn't want t-to have that dream."

"Hey, it's okay. I could never hate you. You're okay," Tony affirms.

Peter shakes his head and hiccups on a sob. "I thought it was r-real. I didn't know I was dreaming."

There's a pregnant pause. Then, Tony prompts carefully, "What happened?"

"I woke up in the morning," Peter explains, his voice shaky. "I-I, I walked out into the living room and sat on the c-couch. I didn't—I didn't hear anything, and then—and then he just _grabbed_ me—" He presses his fist with the sleeve overlapping his knuckles against his mouth to stop a sob. Taking a deep breath, he continues, "And I didn't know what to do because his hands were bloody and he was on me, and I found Aunt May's body covered in so much blood and then he pushed me onto the b-bed and he, and then you came in, but you didn't _help_ me." He half-coughs, half-sobs. "And you—and you _pushed_ me down on the bed and c-called me a pretty boy and you—you—yeah." He sniffs, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Sorry. I know you wouldn't do that to me. I don't know why I dream about that."

He holds his breath. Waits for Tony's response, only to be met with deafening silence.

After what feels like hours, Tony says, "I'm sorry."

Peter's brow furrows at the crack and vulnerability in Tony's words. He has nothing to be sorry for. Everything is Peter's fault.

"Not your fault," Peter murmurs, sniffing.

"It's not yours, either." When Peter doesn't respond, Tony says, "I mean it, Peter. You didn't ask for any of this."

Peter releases a heavy breath. Quietly, he says, "Maybe I deserve it."

"Nobody deserves it," Tony says, firm. "Especially not you."

Fresh tears spring to his eyes. He wipes them away with shaky hands. "Then why did it happen to me?"

There's a pause before Tony replies. "I don't know, bud. I'm sorry. I wish it hadn't happened."

Blinking away tears, Peter contemplates Uncle Ben's belief that everything happens for a reason. When his parents died, he comforted him with those words. When the children's museum was closed on his birthday, he cheered him up with those words. When he died, Peter tried to tell himself the same thing. _Everything happens for a reason._

He can't explain the reason for Ben's death, and he certainly can't explain the reason for the shit he's been handed. There's no _reason_ , so maybe he just deserves it. Karma, or something like that.

Or maybe it just happened because Beck is evil. Maybe it wasn't a part of some grand scheme, or even karma system. Maybe things just happen and it sucks.

Tony, who is sitting with his back against the adjacent cabinets, looks up in surprise when the cabinet creaks open. Peter crawls out and sits beside Tony, avoiding his gaze. He doesn't try to hide the red eyes, tear stains, or dark under-eyes.

As they sit there, Tony studying Peter and Peter looking around at the mess he made with the pots and pans he emptied out of the cabinet while in his panic-induced frenzy, they don't try to force a conversation.

When Peter shifts and starts putting the pots and pans away, Tony wordlessly joins him. Tony puts the last one away and straightens. He doesn't have time to turn all the way around before Peter's stepping into his chest, wrapping his arms around him. He presses his face into Tony's shirt and closes his eyes.

Tony's hesitant to return the hug at first, but then he wraps an arm around the kid and sets his other hand on his head to smooth back his curls.

"You're going to be okay, Pete."

•

Peter, accompanied by Tony, visit May in the medbay where her nose is patched up and bruised. Peter can't even apologize before she's hugging him and assuring him that she doesn't blame him. Apparently he had slept walked into the living room, and May sought after him after Friday alerted her that he was showing signs of extreme distress. She found him whimpering with his face pinched and tried to wake him up before he, eventually, woke up, threw up, and then elbowed his aunt in the face. And, you know, proceeded to cower in a kitchen cupboard.

Since May does have a job still and can only take so many emergency days off, she heads off to work soon after Bruce patches her nose and basically threatens Tony if he doesn't call her if something happens. After a quick kiss to the top of Peter's head, she's out the door.

Peter still feels super embarrassed and ashamed about the dream he had, even more so now that Tony knows. It makes eating lunch with the man uncomfortable and tense. Tony doesn't seem to have the same awkwardness around him that Peter feels in his stomach.

When Tony's halfway through his salad and Peter hasn't even touched his plate, Peter asks, "Aren't you even a little bothered?"

Tony pauses mid-chew. "About what?"

"The fact that I had a dream that we . . . you know, had sex?" His cheeks flow red hot and he looks away.

A frown wrinkles Tony's forehead and he swallows. A thoughtful look crossed his face. "I don't think you know what sex is."

Peter blinks, mildly offended and confused. "I know what it is."

"Yet, you refer to what Beck did to you as sex," Tony says, like he's making a point. Peter would really rather not have this conversation, but Tony looks determined, so he just sits and avoids Tony's piercing gaze. "Listen carefully."

"Okay."

"Sex is consensual intercourse," Tony says slowly, enunciating every word. "Emphasis on the _consensual_. What you described in your dream wasn't consensual, and what happened to you wasn't consensual, so it wasn't sex."

The _"it was rape"_ remains unspoken but heard loud and clear.

Pursing his lips and stabbing his salad half-heartedly, Peter mutters, "There's not much of a difference."

"Uh, yes there is."

Peter keeps his gaze down and shrugs.

"Peter."

"Hm?"

"There's a big difference."

He just sighs. "Okay. Sorry." Leaning his head on his palm, his elbow perched on the table, he pokes around his salad with his fork. His stomach is empty, but his hunger is less for food and more for the stash of pills he has back at the apartment. He isn't sure when he's going back, though. He just prays that May doesn't go snooping around his room and find them.

"You know what?"

Peter's eyes lift from his plate to the man sitting across from him. After impaling a piece of lettuce on his fork, Tony points it at Peter.

"That word is banned from your vocabulary."

Peter's brow furrows. "What, _sorry_?"

"Yep." Tony bites the lettuce off his fork. "No more saying sorry."

"What if I-"

"Don't care," Tony flippantly cuts him off. 

Peter huffs but doesn't argue, knowing this is a battle he won't win. "Fine."

•

If Peter didn't have a single ounce of self-control in his body, then he probably would have thrown his arms around Bruce when the man called him and Tony down to his lab with news of an improved sleeping pill. 

Peter's been craving Adderall all day and feeling like his head is under murky water, and although the sleeping pills basically have an opposite effect than the stimulant, his mind alights with intrigue and anticipation at the sight of them. They're little white pills, just like the last batch. When Bruce extends the pill bottle, Peter reaches out, only for Bruce to hand it over to Tony. His shoulders fall.

As Tony pockets the small bottle, Bruce says, "They're a bit of a higher dose than the last ones I gave you, but these have a different chemical make-up that shouldn't trap you in a paralyzed-like state as before. That being said, you need to let me know if you experience any side effects or if you feel like you're starting to become too dependent on them. We don't want a repeat of last time."

Right. Except Peter doesn't think he could limit himself to taking just one pill at night. 

"What if I need more than one dose?" Peter asks.

"You shouldn't," Bruce replies, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I _highly_ advise against taking more than one. Not only would that be unnecessary, but it's also dangerous."

Tony waves it off. "Don't worry, Doc. They won't be so easily accessible this time around." 

Peter turns to Tony. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that your aunt and I will be hanging on to them."

"That seems a little excessive." He swallows, imagining a pill running down his throat. It doesn't satiate the craving. 

"Does it?" Tony challenges with a raised brow. When Peter crosses his arms and looks away, Tony turns back to Bruce. "Thanks, Banner. We'll let you know if there's any concerns."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooo your girl just signed a lease on an apartment! we out here doing adult things bitches
> 
> anyways thank you & love you all for sticking with this story :) Hope you liked this chapter!!!


	18. Tethered

Peter still can't bring himself to look at May. Her nose is just bruised now, the inside corner of her left eye slightly yellow and purple as well, and she says it doesn't even hurt anymore, that it looks worse than it is. The fact that her face is even bruised in the first place is something he doesn't think he could ever forgive himself for.

 _It's fine_ , May's been saying ever since the incident. _It wasn't your fault, I shouldn't have touched you after right after a nightmare._

Yeah, but normal people don't elbow their aunts in the face after they barely even touch their back. And it's not like she was going to hurt him, or that she's ever hurt him, and her hand wasn't low on his back or anything. It was simply just physical contact, and Peter freaked out.

As much as it had Peter hung up, May is completely over it. She acts like nothing even happened, treating Peter kindly and calling him sweetie like she always does. It's driving him insane because she shouldn't be so _nice_ to him.

The same goes for Tony. He's just . . . he's so patient and tolerant and understanding and Peter doesn't know why. Maybe it's because the man truly cares for him like a son, like how Peter sees him like a father-figure, but some part of Peter's brain tells him that can't be true. Maybe it's just pity, or a sense of responsibility, like he's obligated to help him because he was kidnapped as Spider-Man.

_And if you die, that's on me. I don't need that on my conscience._

When Tony spoke those words, he and Peter weren't that close. They had only spoken a handful of times, most of which were over the phone. So Tony probably didn't care all that much then, but the question of whether or not he cares now still stands.

Logically, Peter knows Tony cares, okay? He isn't stupid. Tony has said he cares about him himself. Still, there's a sense of doubt and insecurity that creeps in and squeezes Peter's heart as it whispers that Tony doesn't care in his ear.

There's too many voices—too many _thoughts_ —in his head. His brain is constantly arguing with itself and having conversations that only make things worse. Sometimes it isn't even that bad. Sometimes a thought will randomly pop into his head while he's doing homework to say _Hey, remember that time you and Beck slow danced in the kitchen?_

It doesn't matter that the memory isn't necessarily a bad one where he was used, abused, yelled at, or scared. It still makes his breath hitch and his whole body freeze. It has the same effect as his memories of watching the blood roll down his thighs and down the drain while he was showering after having sex with Beck. Or, as Tony would say, after Beck raped him.

Peter's grip on his pencil while he's doing homework tightens at the thought of the r-word.

He wasn't raped. He couldn't have been. When they learned about rape and sexual assault in health class, it only happened to girls. Only the girls were worried about it. They were taught how to avoid being assaulted while the boys were told to step in and help a girl who looks uncomfortable. There was nothing about boys being raped.

Tony says it was rape, though. He says it wasn't consensual. As much as Peter didn't want to be sexually intimate with Beck, he didn't fight back like he should have. He let it happen. And, for a while, he tried to convince himself that he wanted it, because Beck—whom he thought was his husband—wanted it. So he told himself to want it. The first time they had sex, Peter cried and said no, but then he gave up. If it was purely wasn't consensual, he wouldn't have gave in so easily. He must have wanted it. And he even . . . his . . . his body _reacted_. He must have wanted it.

Right?

He's tired. The new sleeping pills are working, but he still feels exhausted—the kind of exhausted that he knows can be fixed with some Adderall. He made a promise not to turn back to pills, but he knows they can _help,_ not just with the tiredness but also the depression and emotional turmoil he is drowning in. The voices and intrusive thoughts get quieter when he's high.

So, when he catches up on some sleep and manages to convince Tony and May that he's feeling good enough to go back to school, he doesn't hesitate to head straight towards the back of the school by the dumpsters after school ends where AJ and his girlfriend are hanging out.

There's another girl there, slipping AJ some cash before tucking something in her hoodie pocket and turning to walk away. She doesn't acknowledge Peter when she passes by him.

AJ looks up at Peter. His dark eyes take the frail boy in. "Go home, Parker."

"You don't want my money?"

"I don't want you ruining your life," AJ corrects as he turns to walk back to where his girlfriend is leaning against the brick wall of the school. She's playing some game with annoying sound effects.

Peter frowns and steps forward. "Come on, man. You're literally a drug dealer, why do you care?"

"I don't care, let's get that straight," AJ snaps. He turns. His eyes pierce right through Peter's. "And I usually don't deal addictive shit. Mostly just weed to those rich white kids."

"You deal Adderall," Peter points out.

"It's usually just a one-time thing, or something customers get every once in a while for finals." AJ points at him. "You're the only dumbass who comes around every day."

Peter's fingers twitch in his pockets. "It's been a week."

"You haven't been to school. For all I know, you've been caught and been doin some kinda rehab or some shit."

Anger and frustration flares in Peter's chest. Guilt is already eating away at him for going behind Tony and May's backs. He just wants to get this over with and get his fix. "Why does it matter?"

"Because I don't wanna be responsible for getting your ass addicted."

"Whatever, man," Peter grumbles, pulling out cash and shoving it into AJ's chest. "Come on. Just one."

AJ shakes his head but pockets the money anyways. "You can't be doin shit like this." Bending over, he ruffles through his backpack, the straightens. He all but shoves the bag at Peter. "There. Now get lost."

•

School the rest of the week passes by in a blur. He's high almost every day of the week, but it's okay because it helps.

Well, he knows it isn't okay, and it's not okay that he broke his promise of staying away from drugs, but at least he isn't being bombarded by intrusive thoughts and memories randomly throughout the day. He can sit through his English class while they discuss _To Kill a Mockingbird_ without suffocating or freezing at the mention of the character Tom Robinson being accused of raping a young woman named Mayella.

He knows being high at school isn't what good students do, but it's his only option at this point. Ned doesn't seem to notice, and neither do his teachers.

In hindsight, he should have known that Michelle Jones wouldn't have picked up on anything.

"Where have you been?" the strange girl asks, fabricating beside Peter in the hallway between fifth and sixth period.

He shuts his locker and turns, walking to his class as he says, "Sick."

"Bullshit, but okay." Michelle follows him. "So are we just going to ignore the fact that you're high?"

Peter's heart twists. Glancing around to ensure no teachers heard, he hisses, "I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Even if I was, which I'm not," Peter adds, looking her in the eye, "How would you know?"

"My mom's an addict. I know my shit when it comes to noticing things like that," Michelle says, and Peter stops walking. Some kid bumps into his shoulder. Michelle slows to a stop and looks over her shoulder at Peter, whose eyes are distant yet apologetic. "What?"

"I didn't know that."

"No one knows that, not even my dad, so." She shrugs. Her entire posture is so nonchalant. "So you're admitting it?"

Peter huffs and looks away. "I'm handling it."

"Sounds like a shitty coping mechanism to me."

Peter looks back sharply, Michelle already staring him down. The warning bell ringing overhead brings them out of their silent conversation. Without another word, Michelle brushes past Peter's shoulder and disappears down the hall, leaving him by himself.

•

It's dark. He's at the apartment in his room, the lights off with street lights shining in through his window. His opened laptop screen illuminates his face.

It's midnight. May fell asleep early after having a rough shift, so Peter hasn't taken his sleeping pills. It's fine, though. He has that stash that he cracks into and crushes a pill to carry him through the night.

He was originally working on homework, but his mind got the better of him and now he's looking at definitions to check Tony's definitions of certain words. He brings his mouse over some words and underlined them.

 **rape**  
[ reyp ]  
 _noun_  
unlawful sexual intercourse or any other sexual penetration of the vagina, anus, or mouth of another person, with or without force, by a sex organ, other body part, or foreign object, without the consent of the victim.

 **consent**  
[ kuhn-sent ]  
 _verb_  
to permit, approve, or agree; comply or yield

He blinks. So Tony wasn't completely right, he wasn't raped. If consenting means complying, then he consented because he complied with what Beck wanted. He went along with it. That's consent.

Right?

Right.

•

This isn't working.

Getting high every day isn't just financially taxing, but it's also draining him at the end of the day. The crashes suck. Going from the high-energy and high-confidence to rock bottom without much of a warning is like skydiving without a parachute. First you're high and loving life, feeling that rush of adrenaline as you soar high above the world, but then you start to crash closer to the ground and it all rushes up towards you and the impact shatters you.

Peter realizes he crosses a line when he snorts three pills in a row then has the worst come down than he's ever experienced. His head spins even as he lies in bed and he can't even hear himself think over all the other useless thoughts and emotions and memories flooding his brain. His stash is empty and he's supposed to be sleeping but he didn't even take the pill after May gave it to him because he didn't want it for some reason and he's so stupid.

At this point, he'd do anything to make the noise and the emotions just _stop_.

May is sleeping. Peter creeps out of his room and stumbles into the bathroom. He sifts through the cabinets, looking for _something_ , before giving up and lumbering into the kitchen. His eyes zero-in on the purse on the counter.

In a blink, he's holding a handful of his sleeping pills in his shaking hand.

 _It'll make it stop. It'll make_ everything _stop._

He starts to bring the pills up to his mouth, but before he can throw them into his open mouth, he stops. In a moment of clarity, he thinks _, What the hell am I doing?_

Frantically dumping the pills back and stuffing the bottle into May's purse, Peter stumbles out of the kitchen and falls to his bedroom floor on wobbly knees. His hands fumble with his phone.

It rings once.

Twice.

 _"Hello?"_ Bruce's voice comes through.

Running a hand through his hair, Peter tries to string his thoughts together but everything is scrambled.

" _Peter_?" There's movement on the other end. " _What's going on? Are you okay?"_

"Are you at the compound?" he manages to ask.

Bruce doesn't comment on the shakiness of his voice or the time. "Yeah, what do you need? Are you okay?"

"I don't think so," he whispers. "I just—Can I come to the compound without you telling anyone? Not even Aunt May or Tony?"

_"Sure, yeah. Do you need me to come get you?"_

"Yes, please." He closes his eyes. Lets out a shuddering breath. "Thank you."

•

He's sitting on one of those hospital tables with a strip of crinkly, waxy paper, his hands wringing together as Bruce takes in everything. Not even a full minute ago, Peter spilled the truth about his problem with Adderall. How he gets it at school, how he's usually high at school, how he is tired of the crashes and guilt. He doesn't tell him about almost intentionally overdosing on sleeping pills, though.

Bruce's forehead is pulled forward and he's just . . . sitting in his chair, silent. Thinking.

Biting his thumbnail, Peter murmurs, "You still aren't going to tell anyone, right? I don't—I don't want Aunt May or Tony to know."

Bruce's eyes lift from the floor to the boy on the table. "Peter . . ."

"I just don't want them to worry or to, to be disappointed." His eyes flicker to Bruce's. "Please."

Sighing, Bruce slips his glasses off his face. "I won't tell them, but I encourage you to be more open and vulnerable with them." When Peter's shoulders drop, he adds, "But I'm proud of you for calling me. You recognized you needed help, and you reached out. That's another step in the right direction."

Peter nods but doesn't reply.

"Peter, I'm not sure if you recognize this or not, but you are making progress."

He scoffs half-heartedly. "Doesn't feel like it."

"Think about it," Bruce persists. "You asked for help. You knew you needed it, but instead of keeping it to yourself or trying to handle it yourself, you got help. You wouldn't have done that a few weeks ago."

Peter rubs the back of his neck. "I guess."

"You still have a way to go," Bruce adds, giving a small smile. "But you're getting better, and I'm glad to see it. I'm sure May and Tony would think the same if you told them about tonight."

"Maybe." He sighs. Wrings his hands together. "Thanks, Dr. Banner."

"Anytime, Peter."

•

May still cries a lot. That's something she has always done to cope with things; when Ben died, when Peter broke his arm in second grade, when she got fired, when she got a promotion, when she found out her nephew was Spider-Man, when she watched a sad movie, when she read a sad book, when she was stressed about making rent, when Peter was kidnapped, and when Peter was found.

It makes sense that she cries a lot. The fact doesn't make Peter feel any better, though, because he knows she's crying because of him.

Sometimes she'll hug him out of nowhere and tell him she loves him _so so much_ , and when they separate, she'll wipe her glistening eyes.

Sometimes she cries in her room at night when she doesn't think Peter can hear, but he can. Every time. It makes it hard to sleep, but the sleeping pills usually kick in before he can hear her pull herself together and fall asleep.

He still can't convince himself he deserves the tears. Especially when he's secretly going through his first full week sober from Adderall and he keeps snapping and being moody. Especially when she thinks he was raped when he wasn't. (He _wasn't_ raped, really. He consented by complying. It's okay.)

By the time the weekend hits again, Peter feels like everything Bruce told him about getting better is utter bullshit. If he was better, he wouldn't feel like this. He wouldn't be regretting not taking the handful of pills that one night, wouldn't be constantly thinking about the cabin.

It has been _months_. He should be over it. It happened during the summer, and Thanksgiving is coming up. It's time to get over it.

May shouldn't still be crying over him. Tony shouldn't still be calling throughout the week to check up on him. Bruce shouldn't be asking Peter to come to his lab while he's spending time with Tony in his lab to privately ask him to pee in a fucking cup.

It's time he moves on.

But he _can't_.

Something is keeping him tethered to that damned cabin and he just wants it to _let go of him._

•

"You're not high."

Peter looks up from his lunch tray, his head turning to the right. Michelle is sitting at the far end of the table he and Ned sit at every day. She's staring at Peter over her open book. Ned tilts his head with confusion, and Peter shoots her a look and says, "Yeah?"

"Why would he high?" Ned asks incredulously.

Michelle's eyes shift from Peter to Ned. "No reason."

•

Ned and Peter are hanging out at Ned's house. Technically Peter is supposed to be at the compound since it's the weekend, but May and Tony agreed that spending the night at Ned's house wasn't going to hurt anybody. Honestly, Peter's surprised they let him spend the night without a babysitter. The only time he isn't being watched like a hawk is at school.

The two teens work on a Lego Star set before finishing and then lying on the floor with Ned's laptop open in front of them with Netflix pulled up.

Throughout the movies, each dig into the bowl of popcorn sitting between them. During a boring part of a movie that didn't live up to the all the hype and reviews on the internet, they throw popcorn into each other's mouths. Peter catches all of the pieces Ned throws thanks to his senses and reflexes. Ned complains that that's cheating but laughs when he misses every single one, the popcorn bouncing off his forehead or his cheeks. They burst into laughter when he finally gets one in his mouth, only for it to fall out when he prematurely cheers.

Around two in the morning, they decide to go to sleep. Ned exits out of the Netflix tab and reveals a google search that makes Peter tense.

_sexual abuse warning signs_

Ned quickly clicks out of it, glancing back at Peter to see if he saw it.

Peter looks away and picks at his cuticles. Tries to forget it. Tries to act like he didn't see anything.

"Sorry," Ned blurts.

Peter shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "For what?"

Ned sighs and sits with his back supported by his bed. Closing his laptop and reaching up to set it on his desk, he says, "I'm not . . . I'm not as oblivious as you think I am."

Peter's eyes flicker up to Ned's. He keeps his mouth shut.

"I've been piecing some things together," he continues, trying to explain himself. "Things you've said, or done, and some things Michelle has said. I just—I'm just worried. You don't have to tell me, but you _can_ trust me, dude. I won't judge you."

Peter sits up from lying on the floor and draws his knees to his chest. "I know." A heavy sigh escapes his lips. "I guess I should probably tell you. It's been a while, so I should be—I _am_ over it. And it wasn't really sexual abuse."

He glances at Ned before returning his gaze to the floor. Ned stays quiet as Peter gathers his thoughts.

"You know when I was kidnapped?"

Ned nods.

"Yeah. That was . . . that was when . . ." He trails off before trying again. "I woke up with amnesia and trusted the guy who kidnapped me. We were, you know, sexually involved for a while before Mr. Stark and Col. Rhodes found me. Then I got my memories back and . . yeah." He shrugs.

Peter's forced casual tone doesn't match Ned's horrified expression.

"I am _so_ sorry," Ned chokes out, and Peter realizes that his friend's eyes are glossy. In a whisper, Ned exclaims, "Peter, you were _raped_!"

"I thought we were married, it's okay." Peter brushes it off despite the storm circling in his stomach and his chest tightening. "I mean, it isn't okay, but it was consensual."

"Dude, you're a minor, and he lied to you and kidnapped you and took your memories. That's not—that's like the _opposite_ of consensual."

"I let him do it, Ned," Peter argues. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. "Whatever. It's not a big deal, I'm getting over it."

Ned is stricken. "You can't just _get over_ that."

"I am," Peter insists. "Even Dr. Banner says so. You can't really argue with him, he's literally one of the smartest people to ever exist."

Ned seems skeptical but says, "I guess so." Pause. "Have you also been doing drugs? 'Cuz like, what Michelle said the other day . . ."

"I was for a little bit," Peter admits. "But not anymore. I told you, I'm getting better."

Maybe the more he says it, the more it will be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think!


	19. Expanding

Thanksgiving morning, Peter wakes up in the cabin. He's lying in Beck's bed. He can feel the man's heavy arm draped over his waist, locking him against his chest. There's a soft fan blowing.

But then he bolts up and looks around the room and realizes _oh yeah that was all a lie and I'm literally in my own bedroom_. Because, sometimes, his mind resorts back to when he thought he had a husband and lived in the woods. When he wasn't terrified of waking up in the cabin, when he enjoyed being with Beck and spending time with him talking about a made-up love story between them. When he remembers that he isn't there and that Beck kidnapped him and fed him lies, he rubs his eyes so hard he sees galaxies of dazzling purples and blues.

He leaves his room when May asks for his help making the pumpkin pie and casserole for the Thanksgiving dinner at the compound. Tony invited May, Peter, Pepper, Bruce, Rhodey, and Happy, all of who agreed to meet and bring a dish. Peter hopes Pepper brings the buckeyes she made last year and that Happy doesn't bring the disaster stuffing that tasted like cardboard last year.

Peter tries to just be normal while cooking with May. At first he wishes he had some spare Adderall in his room to up his mood, but then he actually starts enjoying it. May turns on some music and they sing along terribly to Michael Bublé and Frank Sinatra.

Maybe this is what Bruce meant when he said he was getting better. He has fun without the pills. He's smiling and laughing while completely sober.

Smile never fading, Peter steps forward and wraps his arms around his dancing aunt. She immediately stops moving and returns the hug after a moment of hesitation.

"What's up, sweetie?" she asks, combing her fingers through his curly hair.

Peter shrugs against her. "I love you." He doesn't say it enough. "Thank you for putting up with me."

May squeezes him tight. "I love you too. And I don't _put up_ with you, okay?" She leans back to make eye-contact with him. "I will always be here for you because I will always love you, no matter what."

Peter chuckles. "Even if I join the circus?"

"You joined the Avengers, didn't you?" May teases, earning a real laugh out of Peter.

"Technically, no. And besides, they're still broken up."

"Ah, yes," May says, tapping her orange nails against the counter. "Tony hasn't mustered up the balls to give Mr. America a call."

Peter groans and hides his face in his hands. "Will you _please_ let that go?" he pleads, referring to the time he called Steve Rogers Mr. America and embarrassed himself to hell.

May laughs and plants a kiss to Peter's head before ruffling his hair. "Never."

Peter wishes the rest of the day goes as smoothly as that morning and afternoon. He gets dressed into some nicer jeans and a mocha-cream sweater May bought him because, according to her, it made him look handsome. May dresses into a dark red sweater with jeans and a gold necklace Peter remembers Uncle Ben gifting her a few years ago.

Things do go smoothly, for a while at least. Peter hugs Pepper when they arrive at the compound, and after that he just starts to feel on edge. Like something bad is going to happen. Is the turkey undercooked? Is there a bad guy lurking around the corner? It could be anything.

Peter greets Happy, then Rhodey, who pulls him into a hug when Peter goes for a handshake. Surprised, Peter lets out a small squeak, but he returns the gesture.

Bruce arrives next. After greeting everyone, he lingers by Peter's side and asks in a hushed tone, "How have you been?"

Knowing the implications of his words, Peter says, "Clean. Been having cravings, but I haven't acted on them."

A genuine smile lights up Bruce's face. "That's Good to hear. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks."

"Are we talking about being proud of the kid?" Tony steps in our of nowhere, a champagne glass full of water in one hand. He motions to Peter. "Because I'm probably the proudest out of everyone here. I mean it."

A blush dusts over Peter's cheeks. "Thanks, Mr. Stark. You've like . . . You've helped a lot." Peter glances to Bruce. "Both of you have."

"We'd do anything for you, Pete," Tony says, then motions to the kitchen where everyone else is already piling food onto their plates. "C'mon, grab some grub. It's that time of year to gain twenty pounds in one meal."

Peter follows Bruce and Tony to the line Pepper, May, Rhodey, and Happy have formed. He scoops a serving of mashed potatoes on his plate, grabs a role, and sets some turkey on his plate before calling it good and moving to take a seat at the long table.

However, Tony has different plans. He takes Peter's plate and plops a whole bunch more mashed potatoes on it before setting two more roles beside the other one. "You gotta eat more, kiddo. Today's the day to fill you pie hole."

Peter smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Sure. Thanks."

When he sits down in between May and Bruce and across from Pepper, Peter stares down at his plate of monstrous proportions and gulps. There is no way he'll be able to finish all of it.

He gets started on the rolls but only eats two when he starts to feel slightly full. He skips the third and eats his turkey. By the time he takes his first bite of the mashed potato mountain Tony piled onto his plate, his stomach had to have expanded like the Grinch's heart did in _How The Grinch Stole Christmas._ His stomach is bloated and he fights the slight nausea that tilts the room.

"You feeling okay, Peter?"

Peter looks up, his eyes meeting Bruce's. The others look on with concern. Not wanting to be the reason for their worry any more than he already has been, he nods and says, "Yeah, just ate a lot."

"Your body is still adjusting," Bruce says. "It's okay to pace yourself.

Peter nods again and returns his gaze to his food he won't be able to finish.

The table engages in conversations about a little bit of everything, except work that is. Pepper makes a point to leave all business out of the conversation because she is on holiday break for the duration of the dinner. Peter manages to eat just a little more potatoes, but he is able to focus on conversing with a handful of his favorite people. Even then, he feels something coming, like he's sensing a storm.

Then Pepper says that she has an announcement. Tony takes a drink of his water while she says, "I'm pregnant."

Peter expects Tony to spit out his water, or to choke on it, or _something_. Instead, he just sips his drink and watches for everyone else's reactions like he already knew this.

He knew Pepper is pregnant already. That can only mean that he's the father. Tony's going to be a real dad.

There's a flash of Tony and Pepper being intimate that rises to the surface of his brain, but Peter quickly exits out of that tab and pushes it away.

Rhodey's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead while Happy's jaw drops. Bruce congratulates them, and May squeals.

"Oh my gosh!" May gushes, clasping her hands together. "How far along are you? How long have you known?"

"Four months. We weren't sure when was the right time to tell you guys."

Four months. That's around the time Peter was rescued.

Peter tries to grin. He wants to be happy for Tony, but the thought of him being with Pepper gets stuck in his head and he doesn't realize what's happening until he's shooting out of his chair and darting to the bathroom to puke his guts out into the toilet. Barely digested turkey, mashed potatoes, and rolls come up in chunks that get caught in his throat. He chokes on it before heaving it out.

When he's done, he collapses against the toilet seat, not even caring about how sanitary it is.

Footsteps approach.

"Jeez, kid," Tony breathes, rushing to Peter's side and guiding him the lean against the wall instead of the toilet. He hears a flush, then a cabinet opening. "Were you that surprised, or was it the food?"

"Food," Peter breathes, closing his eyes and focusing on his breaths. He hears the sink run, then Tony's at his side and handing him a damp cloth. "Too much food. Sorry."

As Peter wipes his mouth and chin off, Tony says, "Uh uh uh, that word is banned, remember?"

Peter sighs and folds the cloth over so he doesn't have to see the vomit. "So you're gonna be a dad?"

Tony nods. He's crouched beside Peter, his soft eyes studying the boy like he's made of china. "Yeah."

Peter nods, looking away. Too many thoughts, none of which he can catch, run through his mind. If he had some Adderall he'd be able to catch onto his thoughts and focus on them, but he knows he think like that anymore.

All he knows is that Tony deserves to have a family.

"I think you'll be a good dad," Peter murmurs.

A smile tugs at Tony's lips. "Yeah? Well, I think you'll be a good brother."

Peter's eyes snap to Tony. The adoration, pride, and fondness in his eyes doesn't make sense. How could he want Peter to be his child's brother?

"I'm a mess," Peter argues weakly.

"So was I," Tony rebukes. "So _am_ I. I'm always late to meetings, I never clean up my work space, and I barely sleep. I have issues with my own father that were never resolved, and I'm . . . I'm scared I'll screw it all up."

Peter frowns and sits up straighter. "You're not your dad."

Tony shrugs and picks at his nails. "No, but I sometimes remind myself of him."

"You'll be great, Mr. Stark," Peter reassures, setting his chin on his knees. "He or she is very lucky to have you as a dad."

"She," Tony says, and Peter feels his heart do something weird. A smile quirks at the corner of Tony's lips. "Morgan Marie Stark."

Peter can't stop the smile that spreads across his face. "Morgan Marie."

"Cute name, right?" Tony scratches his goatee. "Pep's a mastermind. Although, if you could come up with something better, I can always jot that down on the birth certificate instead while Pepper's knocked up on epidural."

Peter chuckles softly and runs a hand through his hair to smooth it back. "I like Morgan Marie. It's cute."

"Yeah." Tony smiles at the ceiling for a few beats, then turns back to Peter, glancing between him and the toilet. "How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"Was it actually having too much food, or was the news that bad?" Tony asks, half-joking and half-serious.

"It was probably a bit of both," he admits. "But I am happy for you, Mr. Stark, honestly. You deserve a family."

Tony smiles. "I already got one, Underoos. I'm just . . . expanding it."

Peter smiles, too, but it fades and he ducks his head. "Are you sure you want to let me be around your daughter? I don't want to accidentally hurt her."

"You won't."

"I've hurt May," Peter says, but Tony just shakes his head.

"You're not going to hurt her, okay?" he insists.

"You don't have to, like, include me in stuff when she's born." Peter picks at his nails. "Like, I'll give you guys some space to be a family and—"

"Pete."

Peter stops. Looks up at Tony.

"You're a part of that family," Tony says. His eyes are full of an intensity that can only be sincere. "I want you to be a part of little Morgan's life. Like I said before, you'd be like her brother."

That word hits him as hard as it did earlier. _Brother_. That's . . . That's a lot of responsibility. Does Tony seriously think Peter would be a good brother?

"I know I should probably say it more often," Tony says, tearing Peter's attention away from his thoughts. The man is fiddling with his watch. "But you're like a son to me. You're everything I could ask for in a son."

Peter looks away and blinks away tears that burn his eyes. "Screwed-up in the head, tainted, and a recovering addict?"

Tony levels his gaze with Peter's. "Brave, protective, strong, kind, intelligent, selfless. Do you want me to go on?"

Peter shakes his head before leaning it back against the wall. "I don't feel like any of those things."

"Well, you are all those things," Tony says. "What you've been through is tough. Only the strongest people can get through that."

A tear rolls down his cheek. Peter quickly wipes it away, but he knows Tony saw it. Expelling a shaky breath, Peter says, "We should probably join everyone else soon."

"We don't have to," Tony replies. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind it if we hung out in here for a little while, or if you wanted some alone time and headed back to your room. It's up to you."

Peter sits up and considers his options. Wiping his cheeks with the sleeves of his sweater, he says, "I think I'll join everyone else again. Just need to brush my teeth first to get the puke taste and smell out of my mouth."

Tony smiles. "Okay. While you do that, I'll go make sure Happy hasn't eaten all of the dessert already."

•

Peter returns to the party with his face dried from splashing cold water on his face and with his breath smelling of fresh mint. May sends him a look, silently asking if he's okay, which he answers with a reassuring smile.

Rhodey calls everyone to the living room to play cards. Happy votes for blackjack and May votes for uker, but everyone else votes for poker, so Rhodey shuffles before declaring they're going to play a five-card stud round first. 

During the game, Rhodey, Tony, and Happy grow competitive and engrossed while Pepper, May, Bruce, and Peter are less focused on the game and more focused on their conversation. It mostly revolves around the new baby, of course. Pepper rubs her stomach that slightly protrudes from her loose-fitted sweater as she reveals the name and gender of the baby, which Peter already knew but still smiles at. 

"So are you two, like, going to get married now?" Peter asks. He doesn't want to be rude or intrude, but his curiosity gets the better of him sometimes. "Or will you guys co-parent, or--"

"We were thinking about marriage anyways," Pepper explains with a kind smile. "Work at SI has been getting less hectic, so we were talking about trying to settle down again, but this little girl has certainly sped up the process, that's for sure." With a soft laugh, Pepper pats her stomach.

May leans forward, her excitement tangible. "Would you two be getting married before or after Morgan arrives?"

"We'll sign all the documents before," Pepper says. "Get it all official and all that, and then, maybe six months or a year later, have a real ceremony."

May clasps her hands together. "Ooh, I can't wait to see you in a wedding gown, you're going to be such a beautiful bride."

Before Pepper can thank May, Happy exclaims, "For crying out loud!"

Rhodey laughs, and Tony says, "Maybe practice your poker face. I can read you like an open book, pal."

Peter chuckles at the sight of Happy pouting as Tony swipes his poker chips into his own pile. 

"You have to be counting cards or something," Happy accuses.

Tony just shrugs. "Not my fault you're no good at this. Even the kid is beating you, and he's barely even paying attention."

Peter sticks his tongue out at Happy. The man rolls his eyes.

The rest of the night goes smoothly, the whole group eventually being pulled into the conversation about the new baby and forgetting about their card game. That night, after everyone heads home, Peter falls asleep with a small, content smile.

•

May insists they put the Christmas tree up on the day after Thanksgiving. She drags Peter out of bed and has him help her get the Christmas tree box out from the little attic space in his room. It's the space where he used to store his homemade Spider-Man suit before Tony entered his life and flipped everything around with new tech, opportunities, and close friends he would now consider to be his family.

After the tree is set up and decorated with a hodgepodge of ornaments. Some were gifts in the last, some match, most don't, and a lot are homemade ornaments Peter made growing up. A shiny red ornament at the front has a tiny white handprint on it from when Peter was two. He doesn't remember painting his hand or pressing it against the glass ornament, but it still always make him feel warm inside.

After setting up the tree, Peter offers to make breakfast since his Friday is off for the last day of Thanksgiving break. May happily obliges and spends the morning watching Hallmark movies while Peter gets to work in the kitchen.

When he sets the table, he calls out, "Aunt May, it's done!"

Despite being in the middle of a show, she doesn't hesitate to turn the volume down and join her nephew in the kitchen.

A silence falls over the room when they sit down. Peter's cutting his food with a knife and fork, but May just sits there and blinks, her brow furrowed at the pancakes on their plates.

"We didn't have any mix," Peter says, not meeting May's confused yet curious gaze. "So I made them from scratch. Hopefully they taste okay."

His pancake is all cut up into squares. He can't bring himself to eat it, so he cuts the squares into smaller squares.

"I thought you didn't like pancakes anymore?" May says, treading on eggshells.

Peter shrugs. "Yeah, but . . . these are banana pancakes. They're not the same."

 _They're not the same_ , he reminds himself. _They're different. You can't be scared of pancakes._

May drizzles some syrup over her banana pancakes before cutting off a piece and taking a bite. Peter is still cutting his into minuscule pieces.

"It's really good," May says, her voice cheery, but Peter can feel her worried eyes on him as he has yet to take a bite.

Why does his chest hurt? They're just pancakes. They're _just pancakes_. They're even banana, not plain, like how Beck made them.

A gentle hand on the hand gripping onto his fork startles him and he looks up to find May studying him.

"It's okay, sweetie. Do you want me to get some cereal out?"

"N-No," Peter insists, though his voice is weak. "It's fine. I can do this."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He nods, raking a hand through his hair. "I mean, I can't avoid pancakes forever. I can't—I can't let him win, you know?"

May smiles. "Okay. Don't rush yourself."

He doesn't. May finishes her pancakes before Peter even starts his single one on his plate. Before he can bring a piece up to his mouth, he spreads some peanut butter on his plate to dip the banana pancake into. Once he's got more peanut butter than pancake on his fork, he takes a tentative bite. He chews slowly, focusing on how different the taste and textures are. He knows pancakes aren't bad, they just remind him of something bad. The more he chews, the more he remembers how good they taste and how much he likes them.

He has to push out images of Beck sitting across from him while he eats his pancake, but he eventually swallows. Then, he goes for a second bite.

When he finishes the whole pancake, he sits back and lets out a breath, his shoulders feeling somewhat lighter.

It's like there are a million strings attaching the cabin to Peter, but one has just been cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think of Morgan?? I'm a sucker for brother!Peter, so I couldn't resist :) 
> 
> What do you guys want to see more of in this story? A specific character, a scene, an interaction, etc.? I have some ideas, but I also want to know what you all want. Plus, I've gotten some inspiration from y'all before, so we'll see if that happens again. 
> 
> As always, I love you all & I am so thankful that you decided to follow this story. <3


	20. Equanimity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight rape/non-con trigger warning for this chapter

It feels good to be back at school on a routine, but Peter would be lying if he said that he didn't miss being high during classes. It just feels like there's something missing, something _off_ , as he goes through the motions.

_But I made a promise._

They'd never know.

 _Nope_ , Peter decides, stopping those thoughts in their tracks. He's not going to let himself be tempted. He promised May, Tony, and Bruce that he wouldn't turn to drugs again. He made a more specific promise to Bruce since the man is the only person who knows that Peter hadn't been completely honest about his Adderall usage.

He can't let them down.

He can't let himself down.

When Peter steps into astronomy and the teacher announces there will be a pop quiz, he, admittedly, freaks out a little and wishes he had taken something that morning. Ned isn't in the class, so he can't turn to his friend and exchange nervous glances or even hype each other up. The only other person who is somewhat his friend and in that class is Michelle. She's into space and stuff, so she's likely got this in the bag.

Peter tries not to worry too much when he starts the quiz. The questions don't seem too hard, mostly just review of their current unit, so he doesn't think he does too bad. When he turns in his quiz at the front of the room, he passes Flash, who has a look of frustration pinching his features.

Once everyone turns in their quiz, the teacher allows for the class to talk amongst themselves. Being basically friendless, Peter plugs his earbuds into his ears as soon as he hears Flash and his friends boasting about how 'manly' they are. Soothing music flows through his ears and relax his shoulders. He notices Michelle opening up a book from his seat a few desks behind her and opens up his own, although his isn't classic literature, it's a theoretical journal about quantum physics.

He's broken out of his thoughts when his spider-sense flares at the back of his neck, but he ignores it and lets the wad of paper hit his forehead.

Tugging an earbud out of his ear and looking up, Peter finds Flash's group of friends snickering and looking in direction. His chest tightens and he sits up.

"Hey Parker," Flash laughs, "we got a bet going. Jordan bet twenty dollars that you're not a virgin, but I bet a hundred bucks that you haven't got any action yet."

Peter's face reddens. Jordan sends Flash a glare, like he didn't want his name to be involved, but he's still laughing along. He's laughing at Peter. All five jocks, including Flash and Jordan, are. The feeling of bugs crawling over his skin makes him scratch at his wrist and shift in his seat.

"That's none of your business," Michelle cuts in, not looking up from her book.

"It's just a bet." Flash rolls his eyes and returns his gaze to Peter. His eyes trap Peter in place, a cocky look on his face. "Come on, Parker, I wanna be twenty dollars richer."

Looking over her shoulder to look at Peter, Michelle says, "You don't have to answer them."

"Not answering is kinda an answer in itself," another boy chimes in mockingly.

The bugs crawling over his skin get heavier and warmer until they feel like hands. They ghost under his clothes and grab and grope and pinch and squeeze and Peter needs to _get out._ "I, uh—"

"Yeah," Flash continues, raising his brow. "Not answering gives virgin vibes. Most guys would be pretty quick to say that they've scored some pussy."

Michelle's nose scrunches and she scoffs.

Peter's eyes dart between Flash and Michelle. He knows she knows and he can't think can't talk can't _move_.

"Unless . . ." Flash drawls, a smirk tugging at his lips, "Penis here has a thing for penises?"

"I mean, he do be looking like a twink," Jordan laughs. Everyone laughs.

Peter's breath is stolen from his lungs, his face hot and his clothes too tight. Part of him crumbles and another part hisses _never again, never never never._

_(Lips stretched, gagging, putrid, tears, "doing so good, baby," teeth, gasps, "such as slut for my cock," being torn apart, "look how well you take me, princess," blood slipping down his thighs, moans, choking, hands hands hands hands hands—)_

The bell tears him from his thoughts—his memories—but only long enough for him to dump his stuff in his backpack and hitch it over his shoulder. Images blind him as he stumbles out of the classroom as the students file out into the buzzing halls.

But Peter can't see anyone. He only makes it three steps out the door before his knees are buckling and he's collapsing against the wall, his backpack falling to the ground as he slides to the floor with his back against the cool wall.

But he doesn't feel it. He only feels _him_. He feels him _everywhere_.

"Breathe."

( _Groans, pants, "you feel so tight," slaps, bites, sweat, burning, friction, damp bed sheets, pulling hair, sobs, pleads, "ah, ah, ah," "look so pretty like this, gonna take your picture," filling, tongue, fingers, hands hands hands hands hands—)_

"Fucking breathe, Peter!"

"Sorry," he wheezes, lungs burning and voice high and shaky. "I'm sorry."

His body isn't his. It's so far away, yet he can still feel _him_.

"Can I touch you?"

Peter's fingers tangle in his hair. He blinks, once, twice, but he can't—he can't see who is talking. Everything is so blurry and out of focus.

"Can I touch you, Peter? Yes or no?"

"Don't . . ." He squeezes his eyes shut tight. Phantom pains of when he turned Beck down throb throughout his body. In a whisper, he gives in, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Y-Yes," he repeats, but he means _no never no one ever touch me ever again stay away from me._

His whole body tenses when a hand touches one of his clamped down on his head. But the hand isn't rough or calloused or meaty, it's thin and gossamer and smooth. Slowly, the hand peels Peter's hand from his hair and intertwines their fingers. The warmth of the person's palm sends a sense of calamity through him.

"This okay?"

He opens his eyes. He's on the ground. Students are staring and whispering and pointing, he hears someone asking if they should grab the nurse. He's _trapped_.

"Don't look at those nosy assholes," a voice says, and Peter's wide eyes shift to Michelle kneeling in front of him.

Oh. She's . . . She's holding his hand. They're holding hands.

Her hair is pulled back, a curly strand framing her golden skin. Her honey eyes stay locked on Peter's light chocolate ones. They study Peter like a math equation, like she's solving a mystery, like she can see everything.

Giving his hand a squeeze, Michelle asks, "You with me, Parker?"

He swallows thickly. Nods. "With you. Yeah."

"What are you guys doing? There's nothing to see!" Ned's voice rises above the murmurs. Both Michelle and Peter look over to see Ned emerging from the crowd and waving his arms to herd the students away. "Don't you guys have classes to get to?"

Little by little, the crowd disperses with help from the warning bell ringing overhead. Soon, it's just Ned, Michelle, and Peter. Ned, standing with his brows furrowed with concern. Michelle, kneeling beside Peter, holding his hand.

And Peter.

Peter being a complete wreck and _exhausted_.

"You okay?" Ned asks, because of course he wouldn't ask what happened despite being so concerned and confused and curious.

Michelle turns to Peter and squeezes his hand again. He gives her hand a weak squeeze back.

"Not really," he breathes, leaning his head back against the wall. Somehow, the confession feels light on his tongue. "Sorry."

Michelle looks over her shoulder at Ned before turning back to Peter. "We're cutting class."

•

The corner side cafe isn't busy in the early afternoon, though it usually isn't busy any time of the day. There's an elderly couple in the corner sharing a pastry and a little old lady knitting by herself at a table with a cup of hot tea in front of her. She's chatting to her phone that is set on the table and put on speaker. From what Peter has picked up from the not-so-private conversation, the lady is speaking with her granddaughter about their annual family Christmas.

The three teens are settled into a booth by the window framing the snowy streets of New York. Even in the warmth of the cafe and being swallowed up by his hoodie, a shiver shoots down his spine from looking at the people all bundled up with red noses outside.

Each teen has a hot drink in front of them. Michelle has a black coffee, Ned has some creamer with a side of coffee, and Peter has hot chocolate. Although it's cooled down, he doesn't take a sip, just keeps his hands wrapped around the mug for warmth.

They've been sitting there without talking for almost ten minutes now. Ned's coffee is almost gone, Michelle's half empty.

Peter keeps his eyes trained on the world going on on the other side of the glass. He knows he has some explaining to do, but he doesn't know how things will do after the conversation. After they know how messed up he is.

Ned decides to break the tense silence first. "So . . . What happened?"

Eyes flickering from the window to the two sitting across from him, Peter swallows dryly. "It's stupid."

"Flash and some other neanderthals were invading his privacy and harassing him about his body count and sexuality," Michelle says.

Peter ducks his head and suddenly finds his hot chocolate the most interesting thing in the world.

Ned guffaws. "Why? That's—that's _so_ not their business."

"Flash would've lost, you know?" Peter murmurs, and Ned's brow furrows while Michelle tenses. Tracing his thumb over the smooth ridges of the mug, Peter says, "The bet he and Jordan made. Flash would have lost."

"Virginity is a social construct," Michelle asserts.

"Wait, hold on," Ned cuts in, his eyes wide. "This is about what happened when you were kidnapped?"

It's Michelle's turn to look surprised. "You were kidnapped?"

With a sigh, Peter leans back, turning his head to look out the window while Ned and Michelle turn to each other.

"I—I thought you knew?" Ned tries to look to Peter for help, but the latter is busy distracting himself with the world outside. His big brown eyes return to Michelle.

"I knew about the assault," Michelle says. The nonchalant words send a pang in his heart. "I didn't know the context, but I guess I didn't even think to connect it with his alter ego."

Ned lets out a small squeak. "What?"

"I'm not oblivious." Michelle's eyes narrow slightly. "I know about the red and blue tights."

"Wha—He—" Ned's face reflects the shocked pikachu meme.

He continues sputtering for an excuse, but Peter cuts the bullshit and says, "It's fine, Ned. I'm not that surprised." It's not like he's actively Spider-Man at the moment.

Ned still can't wrap his head around the fact that the girl sitting next to him just _knows_ his best friend's greatest secret. Before he can stutter out questions, Michelle says, "Enough of that pointless conversation. Peter, did you want to talk to us or just chill?"

Peter grows quiet as the two's attention falls back on him. "I, uh, I think I need to talk. If that's okay."

With gentle nods from the two sitting across from, Peter takes a deep breath and starts from the beginning.

"So at the beginning is summer, like not even a week after school got out, I was attacked while on patrol. When I woke up, I didn't remember anything, not even my name . . ."

He tells them about Beck. Being married to Beck. The car accident. His lost wedding ring, and how they were supposedly going to get it resized. How Beck made him soup, pancakes, bacon, and other delicious meals. How he was nice to him. How he was sometimes less than nice to him. How it started with Peter giving Beck blow job and promptly throwing up all over the bed and himself, then Beck returning the favor a few days later. How it escalated, and didn't seem to stop escalating. How he'd cuddle with him one minute, then be shouting at him the next. How he'd be gentle with him, then rough. How Peter can still feel his large hands gripping his throat as he pinned him to the mattress. How the cabin smelled of cinnamon. How they curled up on the couch together and watched _The Great Gatsby_ as Beck ran his fingers through his hair and traced lazy shapes into his skin. How the sun felt on his face after sneaking outside for the first time in a month, how the grass felt between his toes and the sweet air felt in his lungs. How the euphoric feeling of being outdoors was punished by kicks and punches. How Peter thought Beck loved him. 

How confused he was when Tony and Rhodey showed up during dinner one night and threatened to kill Beck. How he went through withdrawal from the drug Beck gave him to suppress his powers and his memory, then started to get his memories back not even two full days after returning home. How he lied to everyone about what happened in the cabin. How he knew what happened was wrong, but still thought Beck loved him.

How he eventually came clean, but only a little at a time. How he told Tony, then May, but pretended like everything was okay. How he turned to abusing his special sleeping pills and then abusing Adderall. How he lied to May and Tony about his drug use. How he came close to just ending it all and taking a handful of the revised sleeping pills.

Peter tells Ned and Michelle _everything_.

None of them notice how long they've been sitting there until Peter goes quiet. Outside, the sun is setting despite it feeling like it was mid-afternoon ten minutes ago.

Peter looks up from his untouched hot chocolate—which is beyond cold by now—and is startled to find that both Ned and Michelle have tears in their eyes. Ned, he was expecting, but cold and emotionally distant Michelle?

"But it's getting better," Peter says, like it makes everything he said in the past three hours justifiable. "I, uh, I made pancakes the other day. And ate one." His nose scrunches. "Sorry. That sounds so lame."

"No, it's not lame," Ned argues, wiping under one of his eyes when a tear falls. "It's, it's good. It's progress. Right?"

Peter nods, somewhat embarrassed. Eating a pancake is _progress_. How pathetic is that?

Michelle has yet to say anything. She's staring at the table, blinking, not really showing emotion other than her glossy eyes.

It hurts, knowing that he's the reason why the two are upset. Half of him remains guilty and regretful for sharing his problems, but the other half is relieved beyond measure. For once, he actually said everything. It's all out on the line. There's no hiding.

Maybe that's why he's scared about Michelle's silence.

"I didn't mean to, like, make you guys pity me or anything," Peter rushes out. "That's not why I told you. I just needed to get it off my chest and I . . . Well, I trust you two." He picks at his cuticles to avoid their eyes. "Thanks for handling what happened at the school, by the way. Both of you."

Ned smiles gently. "Of course, bro. I'll always have your back."

Peter smiles, too. "Thanks."

"I was just doing what anyone should have done," Michelle says, finally bringing herself to look Peter in the eye since sharing his story. There's a small crack in her resolve and she takes a breath before pressing her lips in a straight line. "But, yeah. I have your back too."

Something warm spreads throughout his chest. Finding it easier to breathe, Peter says, "Thank you, Michelle."

"Actually," she says, glancing between Ned and Peter before returning her gaze to the table, "my friends call me MJ."

•

May's going to kill him.

He winces as he scrolls through the texts and missed calls on his phone, some from Tony, some from Happy, but the vast majority from May freaking out. In hindsight, he probably should have sent someone a quick text explaining that he left school early and was hanging out with friends in a quaint coffee shop.

As soon as he parts ways with Ned and Michelle— _MJ_ —he clicks on May's contact and holds his phone up to his ear.

She picks up before it even has a chance to ring.

 _"Peter!"_ her shrill voice pierces through his eardrums.

Bringing his phone away from his ear and wincing, he says, "Hey, Aunt May. Sorry for freaking everyone out."

_"Please just tell me you're okay. Where are you? Tony's suiting up right now, just tell me where you are."_

"May! I'm fine, really. I'm on my way back to the apartment now." He takes a breath. "I, uh, skipped the last few classes of school with Ned and MJ."

_"Who's MJ?"_

"Oh, it's, she's Michelle Jones, from Decathlon?"

_"The girl with the frizzy hair and the books?"_

"Yeah."

 _"Oh. Okay."_ There's a pause. _"So everything's okay? Tony doesn't need to fly over or anything?"_

"Yeah, everything's good." He looks up at the darkening sky as he walks. "Sorry about cutting class, but . . . but something happened, and—"

 _"I thought you said everything was okay?!"_ Her voice sounds far away like she's turning away from the phone as she calls out, _"Tony, get the suit!"_

"No no no, I wasn't lying, I really am fine. Please tell Mr. Stark that he doesn't need to suit up."

There's some muffled voices, then May says, " _Okay, okay, sorry. Just, what happened, exactly?"_

"I had a panic attack or something at school," Peter explains. "Or, like, a flashback or something, I'm not sure. Anyways, MJ and Ned helped me out and suggested we took the rest of the day off, so we went to MJ's favorite coffee shop. We, uh, talked. Like, _talked_ talked. For a while. We lost track of time."

There's a beat of silence. Then, May says, " _I'm glad you're okay. I didn't—We didn't know what to think when we couldn't get a hold of you."_

Guilt swings low in his stomach. "I didn't mean to make you guys worry. I'm sorry."

_"Isn't that word banned from your vocabulary?"_

"How—?" He sighs. He should know better than to assume the two don't talk about him behind his back. "Right. Well, I'll be home soon."

 _"The door will be unlocked,"_ May replies. " _Oh, Tony and Pepper are here, by the way. I'm not sure if you heard them or not."_

He cringes at the idea of the three of them freaking out about his disappearance. "Okay. See you soon."

Not even a full five minutes pass after he hangs up before he approaches the apartment complex and enters through the front doors. As soon as he steps through the threshold, May is standing in front of him and checking for injuries, Tony and Pepper hovering close behind.

Peter gives a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. Before she can even ask to hug him, he steps forward and wraps his arms loosely around her. She doesn't hesitate to return the hug.

"Hey Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts," Peter says from over May's shoulder.

Tony steps over, and as soon as Peter releases May, he steps into Tony's waiting embrace. Pepper smiles fondly and brushes his hair back from his forehead.

"You hungry, sweetie?" May asks as she brushes past them into the kitchen. "I made your favorite pasta a few hours ago, but I can heat it back up."

On cue, his stomach growls. That cold hot chocolate apparently wasn't all that filling.

Tony chuckles and says, "Didn't eat lunch, Underoos?"

"Not exactly," he admits. "Pasta sounds good, thank you, Aunt May."

Peter slips into his usual spot at the dinner table and shrugs his jacket off. Pepper and Tony sit with him. Soon, May joins them, placing a plate of hot pasta in front of Peter and pressing a kiss into his unruly hair.

They all sit at the table. May is, thankfully, keeping herself together, only glancing at Peter every now and then to make sure he's still there.

Now that Peter sees Tony and Pepper together in a more homey setting, he can see them raising a child together. It came as a surprise when they announced the pregnancy and the whole marriage thing, especially since Peter was under the impression that Tony was the only one with feelings between the two because Pepper wanted their relationship to be strictly professional. That was before he was taken, though, so he supposes things could change in that time. Well, something had to have changed for them to get pregnant and want to pursue a life together.

He's surprised how easily he is taking their sudden relationship. Before, Peter probably would have gotten upset that Tony hadn't told him about their relationship before they made the big announcement. Now, though, he's happy for them.

And excited.

Sitting at the table with them and noticing the small bump protruding from Pepper's belly, Peter can't help but imagine a little girl running around. He can see Pepper chastising Tony for giving Morgan candy before dinner. He can see May babysitting for the two. He can even see himself playing with Morgan.

Turning his attention to his pasta and taking a bite, Peter feels a sense of protectiveness wash over him. Morgan might not be born yet, but she'll never have to go through what he did. He'll be the best big brother he can be.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl writing peter recovering and healing low key makes me feel more motivated to get better,,,
> 
> ANYWHO
> 
> how we feeling about the direction of this story?? i'm excited, idk about you guys :)


	21. Kicks

Sometimes Peter's super senses come in handy. Like listening to phone conversations, for example. Other times, he wishes he was normal.

When he walks into school the next day and hears people whispering about his little meltdown in the hallway, he really wishes he couldn't hear every single word.

Ned is waiting by his locker, his hands clenching the straps of his backpack as he shifts his weight. Peter flashes him a smile that doesn't reach his eyes when he approaches him.

"Hey, man."

"Hey." Ned glances over his shoulder. "Everyone's hears about what went down yesterday."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Peter rolls his eyes and enters his locker combination before swinging it open.

_"Didn't you hear what Jordan said? Apparently it was over some bet he and Flash made about whether or not he's a virgin."_

_"Well I heard it was because Jordan called him a twink."_

_"Honestly? I wouldn't put it past him."_

Peter takes a deep breath and tries to shut the whispers out. Through clenched teeth, he says, "Let's just get today over with. I'm sure they'll move on to the latest gossip eventually."

_"What? That he's a twink?"_

_"No, that he's gay. Haven't you noticed how much he hangs out with Ned? They're never apart."_

_"So you're saying they're secretly dating or something?"_

_"Maybe. Look at them."_

Slamming his locker shut and turning sharply, his eyes fall on the three girls observing Peter and Ned across the hall. Their eyes widen and they avert their stares at Peter's hard gaze.

With a frown, Ned follows Peter's line of sight. "Whatever they said, it's probably not true. Just ignore them."

Instead of heading Ned's advice, Peter turns to face the girls announces rather loudly, "I can hear you."

Their cheeks redden as they shuffle away. As soon as they disappear around the corner, Michelle turns into the hall. She finds Ned and Peter and saunters up to the pair with a blank expression.

"Sup, losers."

"Hey," Ned chirps, while Peter—still bothered by everyone's lack of privacy—adjusts his backpack on his one shoulder and glances at the few students giving him lingering looks.

Michelle, notching Peter's distraction, turns and locates two kids eyeing Peter while exchanging hushed words. She sticks her middle finger up. "Get your own life to worry about."

Like deer in headlights, the kids freeze, then quickly turn around while muttering apologizes.

Peter turns to Michelle. "Thanks."

"Whatever." Her eyes flicker between Ned and Peter. "We're going to the library to study for our quiz in AP Trig after Decathlon practice. Don't be late."

Without another word, Michelle turns on her heel and walks down the hall towards her class.

Peter exchanges a look with Ned. "Did she just ask us to hang out?"

Ned shrugs. "I don't think she was asking, but yeah."

•

It's some time in the evening after school and before dinner. Since it's Friday, Peter is at the compound with Tony. And Pepper. It isn't weird, per se, having her around Tony's quarters, but he isn't used to it. When he walked in after Happy dropped him off, he said, "Hey, Mr. Stark!" Then, noticing Pepper sitting with him at the kitchen counter, he had to add, "Oh, hi, Ms. Potts."

He isn't even sure if that's what he's supposed to call her. Technically she's married to Tony via all the proper documentation, but it isn't known to the public nor is it really . . . talked about, to Peter, at least, but that is probably just because the conversation is usually geared towards his mental health or how he's been doing.

Is he supposed to say, "Hi, Mrs. Stark?" Or, "Hey, Mrs. Potts-Stark?"

It's confusing. He brings it up to Tony while they work on some nanotechnology for a project the man has been adamant on finishing, and Tony simply says, "Just call her Pepper. And, while you're at it, call me Tony."

"Sorry, but I was raised to respect my elders," is Peter's retort.

Tony pauses. Looks up from his tech and points a screwdriver at Peter. "Did you just call Pepper old?"

That blows Peter's eyes wide. "Wha—No! I just, I was just— _Please_ don't tell her I said that, I didn't mean it like that, I swear. I just meant that you guys are older than me, n-not that you guys are _old_ old."

"Oh, I am _so_ telling her," Tony teases.

Groaning, Peter says, "If you do I will literally kill myself. _Please_ don't tell her that I called her old."

When Tony doesn't respond with a quip or tease right away, Peter looks over at him curiously. He frowns at the sight of Tony's tense posture.

"Don't say that," Tony eventually says, his voice void of the playful tone it had seconds before. It's flat. Serious.

Peter turns his stool towards Tony. "It was just a jo—"

"Don't joke about that, Peter," he cuts off sharply. "That isn't funny."

Folding in on himself, Peter murmurs, "Okay, sorry." He turns back to his desk and prods at the tech in front of him.

He feels Tony's eyes on him before he hears the man expel a heavy sigh. "Pete."

He doesn't turn. "Hm?"

"I'm sorry," Tony says, sounding tired. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I just didn't like hearing my kid say that he was going to literally kill himself."

Peter stiffens, glancing up. _My kid._ The phrasing warms his heart more than he'd ever admit.

"I wasn't actually going to," Peter says, on edge. He looks back down at the tech he's tinkering with. "I wouldn't do that to you or Aunt May."

"What about yourself?"

He blinks. "What?"

Tony's studying him, his brown eyes scanning the teen's every feature. "You said you wouldn't do that to me or your aunt, but what if we were out of the equation?"

Peter's heart beats irregularly. Not liking how the conversation is turning, he slowly turns back around to face the suddenly concerned Tony. "Why are you asking? I'm not—I'm not _suicidal_ , Mr. Stark."

"But what if May and I didn't matter to the situation," Tony presses on despite Peter's reluctance and confusion. "Would you do it, then?"

"I don't know, probably," Peter admits with an incredulous frown. "I probably would have a while ago, but I have you guys, so it doesn't matter."

"It does matter."

_"Why?"_

"Because . . ." Tony sighs, running a hand down his face. He meets Peter's indignant gaze. "I'd like to think that you'd live your life for you, not because you're worried about how others would react if you were to . . . to die."

Peter studies Tony, then turns back to his tech without giving a reply.

That's _so_ hypocritical of Tony to accuse him of. He knows for a fact that if the roles were switched and Peter asked him the question, he'd say the same. He'd be continuing his life because he wouldn't want to leave leave the ones he cares about, like Rhodey, Pepper, Happy, and now Peter, May, and Morgan. He has read the tabloids, he knows that Tony used to drown his sorrows in alcohol and would search for purpose in highs. He knows that Tony must have at least one time in his life fantasized about ending all his pain, about being at peace, about finally being able to _rest_.

Doesn't everybody?

•

Dinner later that evening is quiet. Pepper, Tony, and Peter are seated around the table with their forks plinking against their plates. It's roast beef, something Peter hasn't had since the cabin. He remembers eating roast beef at old Church dinners when he, May, and Ben still attended. May has attempted a roast beef once, too, but even then the only memory that surfaces with the meat in front of him is the memory of Beck sitting across from him while he talked about his day at work, then asked Peter about his day.

_"I read one of the books on the shelf, it was a lot more interesting than I thought it was going to be."_

_"Oh yeah?"_

_"Yeah, it was set in like the Middle Ages and followed the life of a serf."_

_"Surf? Like surfing waves?"_

_Peter laughs. "No, s-e-r-f. They were European peasants who were basically slaves but weren't technically slaves because they, like, couldn't be sold and stuff."_

_"That sounds interesting, darling. Tell me more."_

As off-putting as the memory is, it isn't the only reason for his silence. The conversation he and Tony shared earlier in the lab is definitely a contributing factor.

Pepper tries to elicit a conversation a few times, but each time falls flat on both Tony and Peter's end. At least Tony puts in a bit of effort, though. Peter mainly just sits and pokes at his food with his fork.

The clank of Pepper's utensils on her plate brings Peter's eyes to fall on her. She rests her lips against her interwoven hands, her pointy elbows perched on the table as she looks between Peter and Tony impatiently.

"This is ridiculous," she says, and Tony frowns while the teen just sheepishly looks away. "I don't know what happened, but I'm assuming one of you—if not both of you—need to apologize." When nobody moves or speaks, Pepper raises her brow. "We don't have all night."

Sighing and sinking in his chair, Peter mutters, "Sorry."

"For what?" Pepper presses, an encouraging tilt in her voice.

"For being honest?" he replies, shooting Tony a look. If he's being honest, he doesn't even know what he needs to apologize for, or if he even needs to. As far as he's concerned, Pepper is an intimidating woman, so he'll give her whatever she wants, even if it's a bullshit apology.

"That's not what you should be apologizing for," Tony rebukes, " _If_ you were even allowed to apologize, which you're not, because sorry is still banned from your vocabulary."

Pepper rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her water.

"What should I be apologizing for, then?" Peter challenges, thoroughly confused and frustrated. "You took my joke too literal."

"Because you said you would _literally_ —"

"It's just an _expression_."

"No it's not!"

"It is for my generation!"

"That doesn't mean you can just say—"

" _Oh my gosh_ ," Peter groans, placing his head in his hands. "It's not my fault you couldn't take a joke."

"It wasn't—!"

 _"Oh!"_ Pepper gasps, her hands flying to her rounded stomach.

Peter and Tony simultaneously snap out of their argument and look to Pepper, alert.

Before Peter can worry too much or offer to do an emergency swing to the nearest hospital, a gleeful laugh escapes her lips.

"She kicked!" Pepper exclaims. Scooting her chair back as the legs scrape against the floor, she says, "Come here, she's kicking!"

Tony doesn't hesitate to scoot his chair over and reach a hand out for Pepper to take ahold of and guide to her stomach. Peter watches the worry lines fade and smile lines form on Tony's face after a few beats of silence.

"Something tells me Miss Morgan will be a pro kick-boxer," Tony says, earning a small laugh from Pepper.

Her green eyes flicker to Peter, and she's reaching out for his hand, too.

"You want to feel her, Peter?" Pepper asks.

Peter blinks, glancing between Pepper and Tony. "Would that be okay?"

"Of course, here." Pepper gently takes his hand and places it over the spot where she had placed Tony's. She keeps her hand over his.

All awkwardness Peter felt melts away as soon as he feels the bump moving under his palm. His eyes go wide. "Woah!"

Tony and Pepper laugh.

"That's—That's so cool," Peter rambles, a grin overtaking his features. "She's, like, _real_."

"What, the baby bump wasn't enough evidence?" Tony teases.

Pulling his hand back, Peter says, "I mean, I knew she existed, it's just—it feels more real. Like, wow." He runs a hand through his hair. "How long did you say until your due date?"

Smiling fondly, Pepper says, "A little less than five months away."

Peter bites back his grin. "I can't wait until there's a mini Stark running around. Do you think Morgan'll like Legos? I have, like, so many we could play with. When she's old enough, of course, so she wouldn't choke on the pieces."

Pepper and Tony exchange a look Peter can't decipher.

After Tony pecks the crown of Pepper's head, he says, "I'm sure she'll love playing Legos with her big brother."

A pang of warmth shoots through Peter's chest and he meets Tony's eyes. The man offers a fond and parental look that, even a year ago, he wouldn't have expected to see on Tony—especially not directed towards Peter. He had hoped for it, even back when he and Tony weren't close and only communicated through Happy, but he never expected for Tony to ever see Peter as more than just an annoying kid from Queens. Even Pepper is looking at Peter with a similar gaze.

If his throat tightens and he blinks back a few tears, no one has to know.

•

The compound is dark and quiet. Even then, Peter knows better than to assume everyone is sleeping. Pepper probably is, though, because even before the pregnancy fatigue kicked in she was adamant on a healthy sleep schedule.

Tony, on the other hand . . .

Well, Peter expects to find the man fully awake at two in the morning. He isn't let down when he silently pads into the kitchen in his pajamas and spots the man unloading the dishwasher.

Tony's wearing his pajamas, too: sweats and a random t-shirt that is (probably) clean but is definitely decorated with some grease stains. The only light comes from the light fixture hanging above the island.

Peter walks over to the dishwasher and leans over to grab a clean plate just as Tony reaches for a mug. Seeing Peter's hand, he follows it up until he makes eye-contact with the kid.

"Hey," Peter says, voice hushed in the darkness. "Need some help?"

"Need? No," Tony says, watching Peter as he puts the plate away. "I'd appreciate the company, though."

They continue to unload the dishwasher until Peter puts the last of the tupperware away. When he stands and closes the cabinet, he turns to find Tony leaning against the counter while studying him.

"What's on your mind, kid?"

Peter clears his throat and shrugs. "I wanted to apologize about earlier, for real this time."

"No need to apologize," Tony brushes aside, head tilting somewhat. "I shouldn't have gotten so worked up. That's on me."

"Yeah, but . . ." Peter sighs and slips onto a stool at the counter. "I should know better than to make those kinds of remarks."

There's more. Peter knows that Tony can see that he's holding back, so he just waits, ready to listen.

He doesn't have to wait too long.

"I wasn't lying when I said that I wasn't going to kill myself," Peter says. His brow furrows. "But I would be lying if I said that I haven't thought about it or, or like _seriously_ considered it at one point." Or a few points close in time, but it's the same thing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Tony nodding. There's a deep crease between his brows. "When?"

"Not too long after Dr. Banner gave me those new sleeping pills. I was . . . Don't get mad, but I was still secretly abusing Adderall even though you and May thought I was clean. It just helped, you know? Like, it made everything hurt less and blurred the memories of him." He pauses, realizing he's rambling. "Sorry. Just—it was around that time. But I called Dr. Banner for help before I could overdose."

Tony lets out a shuddered breath as he runs a hand down his face. Peering at Peter, he doesn't say anything. The silence settles like a rock in Peter's stomach.

"I'm—I'm doing better now, though," Peter says, hoping to alleviate the sadness pooling in his mentor's eyes. "I actually think I'm getting better, no bullshit this time."

Weakly, Tony murmurs, "Language." But there's no bite, no teasing tone.

Peter smiles gently. "No BS this time."

Yeah, Peter still gets flashbacks. Sometimes he gets hung up on stupid memories. He still fears being trapped, sometimes being touched. Certain things make his stomach queasy and make his heart beat so fast he's surprised it hasn't leaped from his chest yet.

But he is getting better, slowly but surely. Two steps forward, one step back.

He ate a pancake. He opened up to Ned and Michelle. Most nights, he gets a full seven hours of sleep. He has put at least five pounds on.

He knows that what Beck did to him was wrong, no matter the lingering guilt and shame that follows. There's still that whispered thought of _you should have pushed him off._ And yeah, he agrees. He still isn't too sure what happened can be called rape for sure. But, he is starting to realize that the voice and doubts are only dragging him down.

He doesn't want to keep being pulled down. He wants to rise above what happened once and for all.

It's taking time, but he knows he'll get there. With Morgan Stark on the way, he has more reasons to fight against the chains that keep him shackled to the cabin. To Beck.

"Pete?"

His eyes flicker to Tony.

"I just—" Tony sighs. "I love you, kid. You know that?"

Peter swallows around the lump in his throat. Instead of a reply, Peter slips off the stool and slowly fits himself into Tony's arms, wrapping his arms around the man and leaning his cheek against his chest. Tony's protective arms fit around him securely.

"Thank you," Peter whispers against his chest. Closing his eyes and focusing on the heartbeat pressing against his ear and the fingers in his hair, he doesn't think he could say it enough. A million _thank you'_ s could never fully encompass how grateful he is. "Love you too, Tony."

•

The last day of school before Christmas break drags on forever. Everyone, both students and teachers alike, have this impatient energy around them as they watch the clock, waiting for the little hand to hit the three.

At lunch, Peter, Ned, and Michelle sit together as they usually do nowadays. Peter has to focus hard on what Ned is going on about to hear him over Flash's annoying voice several tables over as he brags about the presents he's expecting his parents to gift him for Christmas. Something about a Porsche, maybe a new watch, some new phones. Yes, plural. Apparently Flash needs more than one phone.

"Hey, Michelle."

The three teens look to Betty Brant standing at their table. Her golden blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and she is wearing her usual cardigan and skirt outfit.

"Hey," Michelle says. She takes a bite of her apple.

Betty rocks back and forth on her feet as she says, "I just wanted to let you know that I won't be able to make it to Decathlon practice today, my mom rescheduled my therapy sessions to Wednesdays."

Michelle nods. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know." As Betty saunters off, she takes another bite of her crisp apple.

Ned immediately bounces back into whatever he was talking about, but Peter can't listen, his mind stuck on Betty's words.

He doesn't mean to interrupt Ned, but he can't help but blurt, "Betty Brant goes to therapy?"

Betty Brant is, like, perfection in a human being. She's nice, she has stellar grades, and she is president of every club she's in aside from Decathlon. She gets along with everybody and is basically friends with all her teachers. Her father is a pastor at a nearby church in Midtown and her mother is on the school board. Just that morning, Betty handed out homemade Christmas cookies to all the school janitors.

Why does she need a therapist?

"Her brother was killed in a car accident a few months ago," Michelle replies, shrugging. "Why are you so surprised? A lot of people go to therapy."

Peter blinks. "They do?"

"Yeah, bro," Ned says. He nods to the table beside them. "I think I heard that Cooper Jackson goes to therapy for his anxiety. Plus, my little sister went to therapy for a while before my parents adopted her."

"I used to go, too," Michelle adds, much to Peter's shock. "It's normal, and it can help."

Peter looks down at his tray of food, brow furrowed. All this time, he thought that therapy was for mentally disturbed people, or for people who, like, had PTSD or something.

But he knows people who went to therapy. Michelle—the girl who always has control of her emotions and is never bothered by what anyone ever says about her—used to go. And Ned's sweet little sister. _And_ Cooper Jackson, one of the football players who could easily squish his head like a grape.

All this time, Peter shut down every thought about therapy. He isn't crazy. He doesn't need to talk, he doesn't _want_ to talk. He's got it handled.

But Michelle said it helps. Everything is still hard, so what if it could be easier?

The seed is planted. Instead of looking forward to Christmas break like everyone else around him, Peter's mind is stuck on the idea of seeing a shrink. Would they pick his brain apart? Would they pity him? Make him feel stupid for how he copes?

He looks around himself in his classes and wonders who else goes to therapy.

That night, while May and Peter are eating warm cookies as they watch cheesy Hallmark movies—May's request, of course—Peter can't shake his thoughts.

He's lying on the floor while May is curled up on the couch. The light from the TV screen illuminated his face in a soft glow.

He wonders if any of the actors and actresses in the movie went to therapy.

When the movie cuts to a Macy's commercial, Peter takes a deep breath and turns his head. "Hey, Aunt May?"

She tilts her head, biting into a cookie. "What's up?"

"Can I . . .?" He looks down at his nails and picks at them. "I think I want to try therapy. If—If that's okay."

"Really?" May says, unable to hide the surprise in her voice. "Of course that's okay, sweetie. I'll call Tony later, he has a few recommendations in line."

Peter nods. "Thanks."

"Peter?"

He looks over his shoulder.

May smiles softly. "I'm so proud of you."


	22. Acceptance

When May drops Peter off at his first therapy session, he expects to walk into a room with bookshelves and a long plush loveseat to lie on. He'd look at the ceiling, his dinners interlocked on his stomach, as he talked about his emotions. The therapist—an old guy with little glasses and a clipboard—would nod and ask, "And how does that make you feel?"

None of that—aside from the clipboard—turn out to be true. Instead, Peter walks into a small room with a chair and a small couch with a coffee table separating them. There are plants in the corner, a panting of the ocean on one wall. The walls are a cream with white trim. And the therapist isn't an old guy with small, circle glasses; instead, it is a woman with permanent smile lines around her cheeks and in the corners of her eyes. Her dark coils of hair frame her kind face. She does have glasses, but the lenses are big and round.

She introduces herself as Jamie Newbury as Peter takes a seat on the couch. The door shuts, trapping Peter in the room with the stranger, but after a few minutes, Peter's heart rate levels out. His knee still bounces, but at least it doesn't feel like the walls are caving in.

When they talk for about five minutes without even mentioning Peter's trauma, he asks, "Aren't we going to, like, talk about what happened and stuff? Isn't that why I'm here?"

"I usually like to spend first sessions with new clients as a way to get to know you," she says with a friendly smile that isn't overwhelmingly fake like anticipated.

Peter wrings his hands together. His eyes dart to the clipboard in her lap. Doesn't that say everything she needs to know? Tony gave him a run-down the other day about how she knows all of the basics, even Spider-Man. Apparently Tony was her client a few years ago and he trusts her completely. That, and he made her sign an NDA.

"But," Jamie says, "if you wanted to talk about something else, feel free to. I'm here to listen."

Despite not really knowing how spending the time talking about other things would be relevant to his recovery, Peter doesn't feel ready to dump everything out on this woman. As much as Tony trusts her, she's still just a stranger to him.

"We can stick to the getting to know stuff," Peter says with a stiff nod.

Jamie smiles. "Okay, that's perfectly fine."

She asks about his plans for Christmas. He explains that he and May always celebrate together in the morning, but something they just started doing the year before was having Tony over for dinner. He adds that. with the whole marriage and baby on the way, Pepper will probably come over too, but then his eyes go wide and he stutters over his words because Tony and Pepper's relationship hasn't gone public yet. Jamie chuckles at that. Thankfully, as she explains, Tony already filled her in. Peter takes note of this as he tries to let down his walls in front of her.

His walls remain up the entire session, though, but Jamie doesn't seem too pressed about it. They talk about Christmas plans for a while. After he talks about traditions and such, he's polite and asks Jamie what her plans are for the holidays. That's how Peter learns that she is a mother of two—a thirteen year-old girl and a five year-old boy—with a firefighter husband. From the few minutes she talks about them, Peter can tell that she loves them with all her heart.

"They love Spider-Man, both of them do," Jamie says, and Peter perks up at that. "They really look up to you."

He looks away and shrugs. "They don't look up to me, they look up to Spider-Man. It's . . . It's not the same thing."

Jamie tilts her head slightly. "Isn't it? I mean, it's you, your actions, and your heart, just hidden behind a mask, is it not?"

Peter shrugs again. "I guess. But it's different."

"We wouldn't have Spider-Man if we didn't have Peter Parker," Jamie contends.

When Peter shrugs for the third time, Jamie asks about school. "You're a sophomore, right?"

"Yeah," Peter says, then realizes he should probably give more of a response. "It's weird. I mean, I feel older, like I should be in college or something already."

Jamie clicks her pen against her clipboard resting on her lap. "I think I remember Tony saying mentioning you having a big brain. Is the material too easy?"

A blush heats up his cheeks. "Um, kinda? But that's—that's not why. But yeah."

"What classes are your easiest?"

He pauses, thinking, then says, "Probably my biochem class, and AP chemistry."

Jamie whistles, and Peter laughs nervously. "You did hear me right, right? I said _easiest."_

"Yeah," Peter says, a shy smile playing on his lips, "I heard you. They're just easy because I get a lot of practice with Dr. Banner, plus I find it interesting, so that helps."

Jamie shakes her head. "If those are your easiest classes, I've got to know your hardest."

That's a no-brainer. "English. I also always sucked at art class. And P.E., but before the whole . . . you know, enhanced spider stuff."

It goes on like that for a while. Half the time, it isn't even a one-sided conversation. Jamie is willing to answer any question Peter throws back at her and chips in with an anecdote here and there. By the time their fifty minutes is up, Peter leaves feeling lighter. Not light like how Adderall left him, but maybe just less stressed.

May picks him up. She grins at the smile on his face when he shuts his car door and buckles up.

"Good?" she prompts, searching his face.

Peter nods and looks out the windshield at the building in front of them. "Yeah, it was . . . it was good."

May nods. Glancing at the building and then back to her nephew, she asks, "What did you guys talk about?"

He shrugs. "Not a lot, just mainly school stuff and Christmas plans. It was weird, she didn't outright ask me to talk about my . . . issues, or whatever." Slumping back into the seat, he blows out a breath of air. "But it was nice. Now sure how it'll work out once we start talking about the other stuff, though."

May smiles and ruffles his hair before setting her hand on his shoulder to squeeze. "I'm sure it'll work out just fine. I'm just glad you made the decision to try it out."

"Yeah," Peter sighs. "It was about time." He turns to May. "Hey, it's almost six, can we stop by Panda Express?"

May rolls her eyes with a fond smile and puts the car in gear.

•

The apartment spells of gingerbread and sugar on Christmas. According to the candle May lights, it's technically supposed to smell like Grandma's Kitchen, but Peter's never met his grandparents and he doesn't really know what his grandma's kitchen would smell like if she was still alive, so he's sticking with gingerbread and sugar.

A thing blanket of snow covers the roofs of buildings and the tops of lamp posts and parked cars. From his bedroom window, Peter can see the grey slush in the streets and the blue-tinted salt sprinkled on the sidewalks.

After waking up at nine in the morning and having a special breakfast of pancakes shaped like gingerbread men (which turned out to look more like deformed snails) with two chocolate chips as eyes and marshmallows as buttons, along with a side of hot cocoa to wash it down, with May, he sits on the floor in front of the couch while they watch _A Christmas Story._ It never fails to play all day on Christmas every single year. He and Ben used to reenact some scenes and say the lines along with the characters on the TV as May laughed hysterically.

He can't focus on the movie, though. His mind wanders and he can't help but look out the window, picturing the city to be replaced by a woods.

He only ever saw the woods he cabin was hidden in during the summer. He saw the greens and the sun and the flowers. But what if Tony and Rhodey never found him? What if he never got rid of the amnesia and still lived as Beck's little prisoner?

He imagines waking up late on Christmas morning with Beck's warm arms around him. The man would press kisses onto his shoulder up to his neck and then his jaw until it reached his lips. Then they'd brush their teeth together, then open gifts. Or, Peter would open gifts since he wouldn't be able to get Beck anything since he couldn't leave the cabin without receiving bruised ribs and a black eye.

It'd probably be nice, though. He can imagine the cinnamon aroma while they cuddle on the couch as they watch a movie. Maybe they'd even be watching _A Christmas Story_ like he and May are doing right now.

Maybe Beck would let him go outside so they could build a snowman or make snow angles. They'd go back inside when the tips of Peter's ears were bright red and his fingers were numb and his nose glowed brighter than Rudolph's.

Fingers brushing through his hair jolts him out of the daydream. He flinches, his head whipping around to face May watching with her brow furrowed.

"You okay, sweetie?"

Swallowing, Peter nods. "Yeah."

"You sure?" May presses, concern etched across her features.

Peter nods. "Yeah, I just—just was thinking." He looks away, picking at the fabric of his soft pajama pants. _Be more open_ , Jamie's voice flows through his head. _It's okay to tell them what's on your mind, even if you think it won't make them happy. You don't have to censor everything_. "Of Beck."

May stills. Peter doesn't look back at her.

"I know it's stupid, but I was just thinking about what—what if I was still there, and Mr. Stark and Col. Rhodes hadn't found me."

The silence that stretches between them settles in his stomach. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn't said anything. It's Christmas for crying out loud, he shouldn't be killing the jolliness with his minuscule problems.

"You wouldn't have been there for that long," May eventually says, voice firm. "We never stopped looking for you. If they hadn't found you in August, they would have found you soon."

Peter watches the movie playing on the screen but doesn't process what they're doing.

Softly, May says, "I don't think I could have Christmas without you or Ben. It's hard enough without him, but if I was by myself . . ." Taking a deep breath to gather her bearings, May says, "But all that matters is that you're here. You're here now, and you're safe."

He knows he's safe. He just doesn't feel completely safe until five o'clock hits and Tony walks in the door, immediately followed by Pepper. Her stomach has expanded like someone puffed a few more breaths into a balloon.

"Four and a half months," she cheers at dinner. "Can't wait for this baby to pop out already, I'm tired of lugging all this extra weight around."

Tony ruffles Peter's hair and asks how therapy is going while Pepper and May gush over more baby things and pregnancy woes. It's not like Tony hasn't asked how therapy has been before—he called the same evening of Peter's first session to get a consensus of how he was feeling about it—but he has had three more sessions since they've last seen each other.

"Good," Peter says, then adds, "A little tiring, but yeah. Good."

And it was good. Mostly, anyways. Jamie and Peter still talked about school and what's going on in his life and all that, but recently she's been digging a little, encouraging and prompting Peter to speak about some deeper emotions and thoughts. She explained CBT—cognitive behavioral therapy—and how they were going to focus on moving forward in time to develop more effective ways of coping with what happened. They're still in that get-to-know stage, though, so they haven't dug too deep. Yet.

After a button-busting dinner and plenty of dessert, the four sit in the living room by the Christmas tree—Pepper and Tony on the couch, May on the chair, and Peter on the floor—and pass out their presents to each other.

There's no special order to how they open the gifts, they just dive right in all at once. In the end, Peter ends up with a new laptop from Tony, a new video game from May, and a phone case and some nerdy socks from Pepper.

His mind keeps wandering to what he'd receive from Beck, but he continuously drags himself back into reality every few minutes.

It isn't until everyone has finished opening all their gifts and Pepper exclaims that Morgan is kicking again that Peter goes, "Oh, wait!"

He springs up from the floor and rushes to his room with everyone watching after him curiously. When he returns, there is a small wrapped box in his hands.

"I, uh, got something," Peter says, handing it to Pepper. "For Morgan." 

When Pepper takes the box with a grin, Peter steps back and scratches the back of his neck. Everyone watches as Pepper tears the festive wrapping paper from the box and opens it up.

She pulls out a tan teddy bear. It's wearing a Spider-Man costume, minus the mask. Peter found it at a family-run toy store robbery and was offered money as a thank-you from the owners, but he never takes money as compensation. He usually doesn't take anything, other than the occasional churro or hotdog, as compensation, but his eyes caught the Spider-Man teddy bear and he immediately knew he wanted to get it. Now, though, he wonders if it's weird or narcissistic.

Before his thoughts can spiral too far, Pepper stands and pulls Peter in for a tight hug, one hand still holding onto the bear. Peter hugs back after a second and asks, "Do you like it?"

"I love it," Pepper promises, leaning out of the hug.

"Lemme see it," Tony says and Pepper hands him the bear.

While the man studies it, Pepper hugs Peter again. "Thank you, Peter. I'm sure Morgan will love it."

He smiles and sets his chin on her shoulder. "I wasn't planning on getting her anything, but I just saw it and . . . I guess I just thought of her."

"They got the design wrong," Tony points out from the couch. May leans over to look at the suit Tony's pointing at.

Peter pulls back and frowns jokingly. "Aw, what? You mean they didn't perfectly replicate the million dollar suit _thee_ Tony Stark made? Unacceptable."

•

If Jamie is taken back by the softball-sized bruise coloring Peter's forehead when he shows up on Wednesday afternoon, she doesn't show it.

It was an emergency session, one Tony arranged over the phone after just getting off the phone with May. Peter was taking a shower, shaving the peach fuzz off his chin as he angled his jaw in the little circle mirror set up on a ledge, when he dropped the razor and stepped on it. He only felt a small prick of pain and picked the razor up with no problem. The only problem was the little drop of blood on the white porcelain that he spotted when he lifted his foot.

Long story short, he had a panic attack and banged his head against the wall until May picked the lock on the bathroom door and frantically turned off the hot water and covered her nephew up with a towel while his forehead bled and swelled up. It wasn't until after his mind cleared and his breathing started to return to normal that he realized that his aunt had seen him naked on the floor of the bathtub crying and curled up in a pathetic ball, but at least he had the towel to cover him while she cried on the phone, asking Tony what to do.

Not his proudest moment.

At first, Peter denied needing to go see Jamie, claiming that he was fine, but one look at May's terrified face had him caving.

His hair isn't wet anymore. It's slightly damp and is a little heavy on his head, but it's mostly dry as it curls around his ears.

"What happened?" Jamie asks, her voice smooth like honey.

Peter shrugs and sniffs. "I freaked out in the shower. Happens sometimes."

Jamie nods, thoughtful. "Freaking out in the shower, or just freaking out?"

"Freaking out," Peter replies. He picks at his cuticles. "But it's, um, it usually doesn't happen that much anymore, just sometimes."

"What caused it this time?"

He pauses. Images of scarlet blood running down the drain flash behind his eyes and he blinks to get rid of them. Clearing his throat, he says, "I, uh, saw blood. It reminded me of something."

"What did it remind you of?" Jamie prompts. Her pen clicks.

Peter looks away and gnaws on his bottom lip. "When I'd take showers after Beck—" He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair. "I'd always take a shower after we had sex. There was usually blood."

Jamie's eyes narrow slightly and she jots something down on the clipboard on her lap. "You're still referring to the assault as sex, I see."

Peter shrugs sheepishly. "I mean . . . yeah. I know Tony and May, and even MJ and Ned, say that it was technically rape, but—but I don't know."

"But you know it was wrong, what Beck did to you." It's not a question. They've covered this before.

"Yeah."

"But you don't think it was rape?"

". . . I'm not sure."

Jamie nods. "Okay, well, what is rape, exactly? I can pull up a dictionary on my phone and—"

"It's unlawful sexual intercourse or any other sexual penetration of the vagina, anus, or mouth of another person, with or without force, by a sex organ, other body part, or foreign object, without the consent of the victim," Peter recites, biting his thumbnail. "And to consent is to to permit, approve, or agree; comply or yield."

Jamie blinks. "Okay. Well, I agree with your first definition, but your definition of consent doesn't really fit with our specific context."

Peter's brow pulls forward. "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever heard of consent is as easy as FRIES?" When he shakes his head, Jamie explains, "It means that consent is Freely given, Reversible, Informed, Enthusiastic, and Specific."

None of that processes correctly in his mind. It doesn't line up with his definition. Consent means complying, right? It means going along with it. It means not putting up too much of a fight, because if you don't fight the whole time and if your body reacts positively to it, then you must've wanted it.

Right?

When you say yes, you can't just take it back. It's already out there. You already consented. (Even if you said _no no please stop I don't want to please it hurts Beck stop_ and then eventually stop complaining, that's a silent yes.)

"Peter?"

He blinks and looks up, a tear falling to his cheek. He hadn't realize he was crying.

Hastily wiping the salty tear with his sleeve, he croaks, "Yeah?"

"What you're feeling—overwhelmed, frustrated, maybe, angry, ashamed—is valid. You can feel that, you're allowed to accept what happened and you're allowed to grieve what happened to you."

His chin trembles and he ducks his head. "I-I don't—I don't know." He isn't sure what he doesn't know this time, but it strikes him deep. "I just—I feel like he's taken everything from me, and I, and he's still _taking_."

"What do you feel like you've lost?" Her voice is the calm in the raging storm in his head.

Choking on a sob, he says, "M-My innocence, and my, my happiness. He took me and he—he broke me."

"He did not break you," Jamie says. Peter clings onto her words like a lifeline. "It might feel like he did in this moment, but you still feel happiness. You've told me about how you're excited about the baby, and about those times when you're happy with Ned and MJ. You have fun in the lab with Tony, and you cherish your time with your aunt. He didn't take that from you."

"But I can still feel him," Peter sniffles, wiping under his nose. "Like, I expect him to be on the couch when I get home, or when I w-wake up, I expect to turn around and to see his f-face. He won't go away."

Jamie smiles, but it's sad and sympathetic and doesn't reach her eyes. "Honey, I think you're on the right path. Acknowledging that what he did to you was rape, _not_ sex, is vital. You need to make the distinction and believe it."

"But I didn't even fight back half the time," Peter argues, his chest tight and his hands shaking. "And when I did, I didn't even put up much of a fight. I just—I just let it happen. I made it seem like it was okay, so that's my fault."

Jamie shakes her head and clicks her pen. "You shouldn't have had to fight back at all."

"But I . . ." He presses his lips in a thin line and squeezes his eyes shut to keep the tears back. "But it still feels like it was my fault." Taking a deep, shaky breath, he says, "When Mr. Stark found out, he—he told me that it wasn't my fault, and that even if I, if I had thrown myself on Beck and explicitly asked for it, then it would still be . . . it would still be rape." His glossy eyes flicker up to Jamie. "But that doesn't make sense, because then I would have consented and it would have been fine."

She lets out a long sigh. "Peter, you were a minor. You still are a minor. That's rape."

He looks away and chews on his thumbnail again.

"You were drugged the entire time," Jamie plows on. "That's rape."

Peter closes his eyes. A tear makes its way down his cheek.

"You were scared. That's rape."

More tears silently flow down his face.

"You were manipulated and lied to." Her voice is hard, but not unkind. Stern. Like a teacher. "That's rape."

His chest burns.

"You never once said yes."

Already knowing the next two words that are about to come out of her mouth, he lets out a small whimper at the same time she says, "That's rape."

"Okay!" His voice comes out broken and wet. Covering his face with his trembling hands, he mutters, "I hate him. I _hate_ him."

"That's perfectly valid," Jamie says. How can she stay so calm and collected? "Can you understand that what happened was rape, now?"

He nods and wipes his face with his arm. "But it's . . ." An angry, sad frown pulls at his lips. "It's hard. I-I don't know if I believe that."

Jamie offers a patient smile. "That's okay. We'll keep working on it."

•

When Peter closes the car door after slipping into May's car, one look at his aunt has his whole face crumpling again as he starts to sob in the passenger seat. He cries into his hands, his whole body wracking with sobs and uneven breaths.

May frets and turns to him, pounding him with frantic questions to try to figure out the issue.

But there isn't an issue. Peter's heart just hurts. It's like he's grieving himself, what he lost to Beck. If Jamie could hear his thoughts, she'd probably tell him that he didn't lose anything—at least not permanently—to that man. Which, okay. Sure. But at this moment, Peter is finally breaking down and coming to terms with what happened.

He was raped. Whether or not he believes it, he can at least acknowledge it to be a fact. And it hurts. It hurts so damn much. But now that the wound is open, it can finally start to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ok hi guys im not dead lmao
> 
> so it's been...what? three or four days since I've updated? so sorry for the late chapter, i went home for the weekend & didn't have time to write until this morning. so, yeah. enjoy this chapter i wrote today :)


	23. Restoration

The second semester of his sophomore year starts off much better than the first semester had. For one, Peter isn't hiding a monumental secret that is eating him alive. He isn't flinching at every movement, isn't waking up covered in sweat with tears pooling in his eyes and his chest tight. He isn't ignoring homework assignments until they pile up. He isn't falling asleep in class, and he isn't trying to pretend his way through every day.

It isn't perfect, of course, but it's better. It's okay.

Peter has a support system now. He isn't fighting the army in his head all by himself, it's a fair fight, now. At school, he has Ned and Michelle. Ned—bless his heart—still slides him a granola bar at lunch every day despite the fact that Peter has put on the weight he lost and eats all of his lunch. Michelle sits with the two at lunch. She's usually immersed in a book, but sometimes she'll engage in short conversations or look up from the pages to make fun of them for how nerdy and awkward they are.

At home, he has Tony, Pepper, and May. He also has Bruce, even though the man usually isn't around, but it's still comforting to have the man's number in his phone. He doesn't anticipate another late-night phone call requesting that he come pick him up before he could overdose on his sleeping pills, but still. At least he knows he can call him for any issues he doesn't want to bother May or Tony with if he ever needs to.

Peter even has Jamie, who is a sturdy post he can cling onto when the water around him threatens to drown him. He wouldn't consider her the hand that grabs him out of the raging waters because she isn't pulling him to safety, she is helping him pull himself up.

Thankfully, Flash doesn't bother him too much at the beginning of January. He still makes some remarks in class when Peter raises his hand too fast, but he doesn't spiral into self-hatred or shame or even thoughts about Beck. (That doesn't mean his mind doesn't remind him of Beck when Flash calls him Penis Parker, that his tastebuds aren't bombarded by the putrid taste, but he doesn't succumb to the panic.)

During lunch, when someone accidentally brushes against Peter's back in passing, his back goes rammer rod straight. His heart hammers in his chest and he can hear Beck whispering against his ear—

A warm hand slips into his and squeezes. "Hey. You with me, Parker?"

His eyes flicker to the girl sitting across from him, holding his hand and looking directly into his eyes. He holds Michelle's gaze for a few moments before squeezing her hand back. "Yeah. Sorry." Turning to Ned, he asks, "What were you saying?"

Ned looks concerned, but picks up where he left off.

When Michelle starts to slip her hand out of his, Peter holds on just a little tighter, his eyes focused on Ned as his friend raves on about a new series they all need to watch together sometime. Michelle, surprisingly, keeps her hand in Peter's. She doesn't question the contact, and Ned doesn't mention it. He barely even glances at his two friends holding hands across the table.

It's . . . weird. And confusing.

Peter asks Jamie the next time he has an appointment why he's so okay with Michelle's touch when he's usually adverse to physical contact when he enters panic mode.

"I even pushed Aunt May away from me before, and I usually tense up when I don't initiate the contact," Peter says, his brow furrowed. "But this was the second time MJ held my hand and it actually helped."

Physical contact _never_ helps. After he's done freaking out, or after calming himself down, then he's okay with touch as long as he is the one to initiate it. So why is Michelle different?

"It sounds like it grounds you when she holds your hand," Jamie says. "It pulls you back to the present and makes you aware that there is no danger."

"But why?" Peter wonders aloud. "Why . . . Why isn't it the same when Aunt May or Tony do it?"

Jamie shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with her age being close to yours, or maybe there isn't a reason at all."

•

"But time is a straight line," Bruce says, pushing his glasses up his face. "If you travel back into your own past, that destination becomes your future, and your former present becomes the past, which can't now be changed by your new future."

"Makes sense," Peter muses. He taps the end of his pencil against his head, thinking. "Time is a continuous parameter that flows at the same rate everywhere in the universe. I think it was Isaac Newton who said that, or something."

Leaning against his palms on the desk, Bruce thinks out loud, "What if we merged quantum mechanics with general relativity? That might allow for time travel into the past, right?"

 _Hm_. He doesn't know a lot about quantum mechanics, but he remembers reading David Deutsch's book about some heavy quantum mechanics and the possibility for time travel. From what he's read, it doesn't seem too plausible. Peter taps the pencil against the table. "I don't know. What if . . . so time is a straight line, right? What if it was like a Möbius strip?"

The doors slide open with a whoosh. Peter and Bruce turn to watch Tony step in, his eyes immediately finding Peter.

Tony points at Bruce. "You stole my protégé."

Bruce shows his hands innocently. "He's the one who walked in here and asked what I was doing."

"He's trying to build a time machine, Mr. Stark," Peter exclaims. "Like, for _time_ _travel_."

"That's usually what time machines are for," Tony quips before nodding towards the door. "Come on, I need your help with this busted nanotech."

Sighing, Peter slips off the stool and flashes Bruce a smile. "See ya later, Dr. Banner. Don't go back in time without me."

He returns the smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Grabbing his backpack from the desk and slinging it over a shoulder, Peter follows Tony out of Bruce's lab as they head to Tony's.

Tony glances at Peter sideways while they walk. "How was school?"

"Same as always. Oh, Ned's birthday is coming up soon, so we've been talking about that a lot."

"Yeah? Are you two going to stay up late watching movies or something?" Tony asks.

"Probably," Peter says, shrugging. "I mean, it's gonna be a little different 'cuz, like, MJ is coming over too. She isn't staying the night like I am, but still."

Tony studies Peter from the corner of his eye. "So MJ wormed her way into your little friend group?"

"I guess so." Peter shrugs again. "She's cool."

Pause.

"And she, like, knows," Peter says, his voice slightly lowered. "About everything."

Tony slows to a stop. Turning, Peter stops, too. An unreadable expression crosses Tony's face and he clarifies, " _Everything_ , everything?"

Peter nods. "Yeah. Um. She sort of found out? Like, way before I told you. MJ just seems to know everything without you saying anything. It's kinda creepy." He lets out a small laugh.

Nodding too, Tony asks, "So am I going to meet her anytime soon?" When Peter blinks, he explains, "I've met Ned a few times, but I don't even think I know what this MJ gal looks like."

"Maybe? I don't know," Peter admits, adjusting his grip on his backpack strap. "She isn't as awed by the Avengers and stuff like Ned is. She barely batted an eye when she found out I was Spider-Man."

"Hm. Alright." Tony turns and continues on his way to the lab.

Frowning and walking after him, Peter says, "You're not going to run a background check and all that, right?"

"Course not." But Tony looks away too quickly and his words are short.

With a groan, Peter pleads, "You really don't need to, I swear she isn't a murderer or anything. She's cool."

"I said I wasn't going to."

"Yeah, but I know that's the first thing you're going to do when I leave." Peter raises his brow and tries to catch Tony's eye. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Tony finally returns Peter's stare. "You're wrong, because the first thing I'm going to do when you leave is down a cup of coffee, _then_ I'll have Friday run her name through—"

"Ughhhh," Peter whines, dragging his feet. "You're the worst."

"Hey, sue me for wanting to make sure she isn't the daughter of an underground arms manufacturer with killer mechanical wings and a vendetta."

"That was _one_ _time_."

•

Somehow, the news of Pepper's pregnancy leaks and the media swoops right in to print it as their headlines. Consequentially, Pepper and Tony's engagement also leaks to the public. According to Tony, it was only a matter of time until it blew up, so he and Pepper are prepared.

They're not as upset as Peter thought they'd be. The couple refuses all the news stations and newspapers requesting for an interview and avoids giving any comments.

Basically, it's just a rumor, as far as the public knows. They haven't denied nor confirmed anything about the baby or their relationship. As infuriated as the media is, Peter can't help but be amused. For once, he's on the inside looking out. He knows the secret, yet no one knows that he knows.

Except for MJ and Ned, of course.

As soon as Peter puts his tray down, Ned blurts, "So is it true?"

Sitting, Peter asks, "Is what true?"

Michelle rolls her eyes. "You obviously know what he's talking about, so spill."

Surprised to see curiosity in Michelle's eyes, Peter says, "Okay, well, it's supposed to be a secret, so you can't tell anyone . . .

Michelle and Ned lean in slightly.

"But yeah, it's true."

"Holy shit," Ned gasps. "That's insane. How long have you known?"

"Since Thanksgiving." He opens his ketchup packet with his teeth. "Pepper's due in April, so her stomach is pretty big already."

Michelle corrects, "It's her uterus, not her stomach."

"You know what I meant."

Ned's face is still bright. "Dude, do they know the gender yet? Or is it too soon? I don't really know that much about, like, pregnancy and stuff."

"Yeah, they're having a girl. They're naming her Morgan," Peter replies with a grin, which only widens when he thinks about Morgan. Ducking his head, he says, "Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts keep referring to her as my little sister. It's . . . it's pretty cool. I'm excited."

"Dude, that's awesome!" Ned exclaims.

"Yeah, that is pretty cool," Michelle agrees. Popping a grape in her mouth, she adds, "You'd make a pretty good brother."

A weird fluttering in his stomach makes him smile. It isn't the same as the anxious fluttering he's used to, it's . . . lighter. It still makes his heart pick up the pace, but he doesn't feel like it's trying to escape his chest. Pretending like her words don't affect him so deeply, he says, "Thanks." Then, for good measure, he jokes, "I feel like I should read a book on brothering."

"I'm sure it'll come naturally," Ned says. "Being annoying seems to come naturally to little sisters. Hopefully Morgan won't be as annoying as my sister."

"Tony Stark is her father," Peter remarks. "I can already tell you that she's going to be sharper than a knife but stubborn and annoying."

And, honestly? He's ready for it. He's ready to listen to her cry, ready to clean up her messes, to babysit, to watch Paw Patrol and Sesame Street.

Bring it on.

•

"We held hands again," is the first thing Peter says when he walks into therapy Thursday evening. He takes a seat on the couch and sets his elbows on his knees, waiting for Jamie's reaction.

Her eyes narrow slightly. "MJ?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, why?" Jamie asks. "Did you need to be grounded again?"

Shaking his head, he runs his fingers through his curls. "Well, sort of? Just a little. Not really."

Jamie's brow quirks.

"Okay," Peter starts, scooting to sit further on the edge of the couch. "So nothing triggering happened or anything, but I was like zoning out. We were at Ned's house for his birthday and we were watching a movie, but sometimes my mind just wanders to the cabin, you know? Like, I'd just think about what I'd be doing if I was still there and stuff. It wasn't bad or anything, I can't even remember what I was thinking about, I just—I just spaced out. Anyways, MJ must've noticed, because I felt her put her hand on mine and suddenly I was back in the room with them."

A knowing smile tugs at Jamie's lips and she jots something down on her clipboard. "Did she say anything?"

Peter shrugs, thinking back to last night. "She just asked if I was, like _there_. I think she can tell when my mind slips."

"Are you okay with that?" Jamie questions. She genuinely looks curious.

"Yeah. It's . . . It's kinda nice."

She nods. "MJ seems like a good friend."

Something tugs at Peter's heart, and he looks away smiling. "Yeah."

There's a soft scraping sound as Jamie writes with her pen. Once she's finished, she clicks it and looks up at Peter sitting across from her. Her eyes dance over his temple. "I'm glad to see you don't have any self-inflicted bruising. When's the last time you've intentionally banged your head?"

Mood dampened, Peter rubs the back of his neck. He knows they have to talk about the bad stuff, not just the good stuff. That's how this therapy thing works. And he needs to be _honest_. "The last time I actually, like, caused a bruise was a few weeks ago when I had that last-minute session with you."

She marks this down. "But you've hit your head since?"

Shame washes over him. ". . . Yeah. But I didn't do it very hard."

"I'm glad you didn't injure yourself," Jamie supplies, a small smile playing on her lips, "but you need to work on not banging your head at all. I know it's a habit at this point, but you need to make a new, less self-destructive habit."

He chews on his lip. "Like what?"

"Well," Jamie says, "There are a lot of different coping mechanisms you can do. There's the 5-4-3-2-1 technique where you name five things you can see, four things you can feel, and so on. There's also holding ice, which isn't always available, but works when it is. Let's see . . . You like chemistry and stuff, right?"

Peter nods.

"Reciting things from memory can also work, like reciting the periodic table. The key thing for making sure all of these techniques work is to keep your eyes open so you can be aware of your surroundings and avoid slipping further away."

 _Recite the periodic table_. He can do that.

Jamie looks down at her clipboard and opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Peter says, "I was wondering if we could talk about something."

Blinking, Jamie says, "Of course. What is it?"

Peter wipes his palms on his jeans. "It's kind of, personal? I don't know. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but it's something I can't stop thinking about even though it's probably stupid—"

"Peter."

His eyes flicker to hers. "Right. Sorry." Clearing his throat, he says, "I just--Beck told me I was gay, right? But the entire time I was with him, I was never, I never . . . felt sexually attracted to him. Or, I don't think I was? Sorry, I know I'm being confusing, I just . . . I don't know. I've just been confused about my sexuality because I've never felt sexual attraction to another guy before, but when Beck and I had sex--I mean, when he, when he raped me," Peter corrects himself, swallowing dryly, "my body reacted to it."

His cheeks glow red, but he keeps eye-contact with Jamie, desperately needing to know if he's crazy for feeling the way he does.

Jamie's head tilts a little as she studies Peter. "It's actually very common for victims of sexual assault to be aroused or experience an orgasm during the assault. It doesn't mean anything, it's just a physiological reaction you can't control."

"But . . ." He frowns, frustrated. "It doesn't mean _anything_?"

Jamie shakes her head. "It can happen even if you're scared, disconnected with what's going on, and if you don't want it. It doesn't mean anything; not consent, not sexuality."

He just sits there. Takes it in.

For months his mind has been burdened by this . . . by Beck's words. They ring loud in his ears. Trying to no avail to shut them out, Peter murmurs, "So I'm not gay?"

"Well, any arousal you felt during the assault doesn't indicate that you are," Jamie corrects. When Peter presses his lips in a thin line and looks away, she asks, "Why is this important to you, knowing that you're not gay?"

He blows out a huff of air and scratches his nose. "I don't know. He—Beck—said something one time when I mentioned not feeling, like, 'turned on' when we were—when he would assault me." His eyes dart up to Jamie's.

Jamie, as patient as ever, nods. "What did he say?"

His eyes slip closed. Beck's words echo in his mind. "Do you want to know exactly what he said, or do you want me to paraphrase?"

"Whichever you'd prefer."

Fiddling with the zipper on his jacket, he recites, "If you're wondering if you're still gay or not, trust me, you are. Your . . ." He takes a deep breath and trudges on. "Your dick wouldn't have reacted the way it did the other night if you weren't." When Jamie doesn't say anything, Peter opens his eyes. He can't look at her, though. "That's what he told me."

"What do you think about what he said?" Jamie asks. "Do you still believe him?"

Peter leans back and keeps fiddling with the jacket zipper. "I don't know. At the time, it made sense. It still makes sense, you know?" He pauses, his brow pulling forward. "But I guess, like you said, it happens sometimes. During assault. It doesn't mean I liked it, even if my body seemed to." A frown tugs at his lips. "But that doesn't mean anything at all?"

Despite the repeated question, Jamie replies patiently, "No, it does not mean anything."

"Okay." Peter zips his jacket up and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Okay. Thank you."

An amused smile quirks Jamie's lips. "For what?"

Peter shrugs. "For not judging me, and just for helping me in general. I think you've been helping me a lot."

Her smile widens into a grin, putting her white teeth on display. "I'm glad to hear it, Peter. I know it's my job to listen to you and to help you out, but know that I sincerely want to see you make progress."

His heart warms. "All of the progress I've made so far is thanks to you."

"No, I don't think it is," she says. Pointing the pen at him, she says, "You just needed some help, which most people do, but now you're going in the right direction."

Peter smiles. "You know when you, like, break a bone? And if you don't reset it, then it'll heal wrong and it'll keep hurting?" When Jamie nods, Peter continues, "I feel like I've been walking on a broken bone that wasn't reset, but . . . but now it feels like it has reset, so it can actually heal right."

"It'll still hurt for a while," Jamie adds.

Peter nods. "Yeah, I know, but at least I'll be able to walk again."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im a sucker for therapy scenes if you cant tell lol


	24. Patchwork

"I have a problem."

Tony's mouth drops open, then clamps shut. Eyes narrowing slightly, he says, "Like a problem you need to talk with Jamie about, or a problem you need to talk to me about?"

"Both, probably," Peter admits, then backtracks as he slides his backpack off on his work desk. "Or neither. Maybe I should go to Aunt May?"

His hands are shaking. Why are his hands shaking? He's happy. He's safe. Everything is okay.

_Everything is fine everything is fine everything is 100% fine._

Tony turns from the tech he was tinkering with and cocks his head to the side, studying Peter as he paces.

"What's up? Something happen at school?" he guesses.

Peter stops pacing and turns on his heel to face Tony. In one breath, he says, "I think I have a crush on MJ but I'm like ninety-six percent sure that she only sees me as a friend and I'm not even sure if she's aromantic or not so I'm not even sure if she even has those kinds of feelings for _anyone_ much less _me."_

Tony blinks. Crossing his arms, he says, "Okay, I can work with girl problems. How long have you been crushing on her?"

"I don't know," Peter groans, throwing his body onto his stool dramatically so that he's lying across his stomach as his arms hang down. "All I know is that I've always known she was pretty, like not pretty like Liz and the other popular girls, like pretty as in she has skin that looks really soft and her hair is always messy but still seems to frame her face. And whenever she says something even remotely nice to me, my heart races like it's trying to beat Olympic runners in a relay. She's also so good at keeping my grounded when I feel myself slipping or when I feel a flashback or, or panic creeping up on me. All she has to do is hold my hand, and _bam_ , I'm okay. And her touch doesn't even pique my spider-sense like everyone else's does."

A pause.

Then, Tony lets out a low whistle. "I see therapy's helped you be more honest with your feelings."

"Shut up. I'm dealing with a crisis."

"After hearing you pour your heart out, I think I want to meet this girl even more now," Tony says. "She sounds like quite the catch, almost too perfect. Can I run her name through Friday's databases now?"

He lifts his head to look at Tony, who is way too amused at his dilemma. "You mean you didn't already give her a background check?" Doubt slides into his voice.

Tony shrugs. "I mean, I did a quick google search and found her Instagram and her Twitter—she's very active in social issues, by the way. Retweets a lot of petitions."

Dropping his head back to hang, he murmurs, "Social issues are important to her. And bedsides, don't you think it's a little creepy for an almost fifty-year-old man to stalk a teenager's social media?"

"That's how I found Spider-Man," Tony points out. "And I'm not fifty, smart ass."

"I said _almost_ fifty."

"Mhm." There's a soft clank, then he hears Tony get off his stool to step over to him. "So what are you going to do?"

"'Bout what?"

"MJ."

Peter shrugs. "Don't know. What should I do? Last time I had a crush, her dad almost killed me, and I'd like to avoid that from happening again."

"I could run a background check on her parents."

"That still feels like an invasion of privacy."

"It's called being cautious," Tony insists. "But I don't think her dad would be a villain like Liz's—I mean, what are the odds? So you should be fine, just tell her how you feel."

Peter immediately sits up, his eyes meeting Tony's with an incredulous look on his face. "Are you joking? I can't just tell MJ how I feel."

Tony puts his hands up innocently. "It was just a suggestion. You aren't going to bury your feelings forever though, right? Because that's kinda sad."

"I'm not going to bury my feelings," Peter grunts as he gets off the stool to sit on it properly. "I'm just going to . . . ignore them. For now. Just until I see signs that she likes me back."

An amused smile plays on Tony's lips. "Yeah? And what are you going to do if she doesn't ever show signs of liking you back?"

"Die, probably." His eyes widen slightly and flicker to Tony's. "Not, like, I'm-gonna-kill-myself kind of die, just my-heart-will-give-out kind of die." He pauses. "Sorry."

"I haven't lifted the ban on that word yet," Tony warns, a brow lifting. "But I appreciate the clarification, although I figured it was just the dramatic teenager in love sort of die."

 _In love?_ Peter's not in love. He's not _ready_ for love. That seems so . . . so far away. He definitely has feelings for her, though.

He realized the other day that the fluttering in his stomach wasn't anxiety, it was butterflies. He realized that he always blushes when she says something even remotely nice about him because he cares what she thinks. He looks forward to seeing her at school and to talking with her about literally anything.

But he's not in love.

Sure, he'd probably die for Michelle, but he would die for Ned, Tony, Aunt May, Pepper, Bruce, any of the other Avengers, and literally anyone else in the world, too. He used to put himself in danger for complete stranger every night. Yeah, he cares about her, but he cares about everyone else, too. The way he cares about her just feels a little different, he supposes.

It's all confusing still, but what else is new.

•

Of course, like everything else in his life, Peter talks to Jamie about his predicament.

"Why is it a problem?" Jamie asks when Peter groans and runs a hand down his face when blurting about his feelings. She doesn't seem surprised by the revelation at all, which, okay, fair.

He rehashes everything about how he doesn't even know if she's into him and how he doesn't want to ruin the friend group he has with her and Ned. Also, he admits that he's still confused by his feelings.

"Why wouldn't MJ like you back?"

Peter sighs and sinks back into the couch. Tracing the stitches in the armrest with the pad of his finger, he says, "She came out as asexual a while ago, and I did some research, and it said that some asexuals are, like, aromantic, which means they don't want romantic relationships and stuff."

Jamie purses her lips. "Is MJ aromantic?"

"I don't know, she never said," Peter mutters.

There's a soft scraping as Jamie writes something down, then she says, "Let's say that she likes you back. Do you feel like you're ready for a relationship?"

Without hesitation, Peter blurts, "No."

"Okay," Jamie says, stretching the word out a few syllables. "So what do you want?"

What _does_ he want?

"I guess . . ." His brow furrows. "I don't know."

"How about this," Jamie tries. "What do you _not_ want?"

"Sex," he immediately replies, but then his face turns red because literally every teenage boy wants sex. However, Jamie doesn't react, so he continues, "I don't want, like, to jump into a relationship really fast. I don't want pet names, or date nights, or kisses." As he lists the things he doesn't want, he slowly realizes what he does. Man, Jamie is smart. "I guess I just want a good friend for now."

"Do you know why that is?" Jamie asks. "It's okay if you don't."

Peter crosses his arms and looks to the floor. He's not ready. But why? Obviously it has something to do with his summer . . . The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he's never actually had a girlfriend before (he's not counting Liz, of course). Literally all of his experience with relationships—kissing, snuggling, cuddling, intimacy, commitment, candle-lit dinners, pet names—is with Beck. The man had his first kiss and was his first time with basically everything relationship-related.

"I think I'm scared I'm going to compare everything to my relationship with Beck," Peter eventually says, lifting his gaze to Jamie's.

The woman takes note—Peter's still not sure what she takes notes on, exactly—and assures him that it won't always be like that. Once he's dating—if he's ever ready for that—then he can start to replace his memories of Beck with new memories. Happier memories.

That concept gives him an idea.

When he gets home to the apartment, he asks May if they can have a movie night. Slightly confused but smiling, she agrees and even offers to invite Tony and Pepper along.

"It can be like a tradition," May suggests. "We can host a movie night once a week or every other week, and we can have popcorn, snacks, and dinner—Oh! I think I still have that deck of cards by my bed. Peter, could you pick up the living room, please?"

As May scurries into her bedroom, Peter organizes the living room, shutting cabinets and picking up the pillows off the floor to situate them on the couch. He thinks he saw on some HGTV show that you're supposed to, like, lightly karate-chop the top of the pillow to fluff it out, so he does that to the pillows. It doesn't make much of a difference.

May hurries back in and says, "Could you call Tony and ask if he and Pepper are busy tonight? I'm going to get dinner started!"

Peter chuckles when she spins on her heel to return to the kitchen, more excited than Peter is despite it originally being his idea. To be honest, he is somewhat dreading it and regretting even bringing it up, but he doesn't like that he can't sit on the couch and watch a movie without his heart racing and his mind bringing him back to the cabin.

_Replace the memories._

" _Hey, Pete. What's up?_ " Tony says after a few rings.

Stepping into his room and slumping on his bed, Peter replies, "Nothing much. Just got back from therapy."

" _How'd it go?_ "

"Good." He shrugs even though he knows Tony can't see the gesture. "Hey, are you and Ms. Potts busy tonight?"

" _I don't think so. Why?_ "

"Aunt May and I were going to have a movie night and play some cards," Peter says, craning his neck and looking at the ceiling as he speaks. "We were wondering if you and Pepper might want to come over for dinner and join us?"

There's shuffling on the other end. " _Depends. What movie_?"

"I don't know, probably a rom com or something. Aunt May and Pepper like those."

" _Hm. What's on the menu for dinner_?"

Before Peter could lower the phone and ask, there's movement on Tony's end, then Pepper's voice filters through.

_"Hi, Peter. We'd love to join you and May for movie night."_

"Okay, great," Peter says, smirking when he hears Tony's incoherent complaining in the background. "I'll let Aunt May know."

_"Sounds good. We'll head over soon."_

As soon as the phone call ends, Peter pushes himself to his feet and wanders into the kitchen where May is rushing around. It hasn't even been a few minutes, but something already smells burnt.

May spots Peter from the corner of her eye as she pulls out a pot. "Oh, are they coming?"

"Yep, they should be here in like an hour," Peter says. Another wave of the burnt aroma wafts past him and he crinkles his nose. "What's that smell?"

May looks up, confused. "What smell?"

She lifts her nose in the air, inhales deeply, then pauses. Her eyes widen.

"The butter!" Dropping the pot, May turns to the sauce pan on the stove and turns off the burner. She smells the pan and cringes. "How do I always forget I'm heating up the butter?"

Peter leans against the counter and shrugs. "I'm sure we can just order a pizza or something, they aren't picky."

May wipes her forehead with her arm before setting her hands on her hips. "No, you're right. They may be billionaires, but they aren't too stuck-up to eat pizza. You want Domino's or Papa John's?"

"Uh, is that even a question?"

Shaking her head with a fond smile, May pulls out her phone and murmurs, "Papa John's it is."

Tony and Pepper arrive before the pizza does. May immediately gushes over how big Pepper's getting, of course, while Tony holds an arm out, giving Peter the choice of whether or not to give him a hug. He decides to step into his arm and let Tony pull him into a side-hug.

When he lets go, Tony looks at Peter with narrowed eyes. "I swear you get taller every day, Underoos. You're almost my height."

Pepper turns, giving Peter a once-over. "I think he is your height."

"Nope! Not allowed." Tony raises a hand to his forehead, then moves it horizontally so that it grazes over Peter's hair. "See? I'm still taller."

"By like two inches," Peter says, and May ruffles his hair.

"You are getting taller," May muses. "But you could be hitting your head against the ceiling and you'd still be my baby, got that?"

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes her hand off. "Sure."

She sends him a playful glare before turning to Tony and Pepper. "Pizza should be here soon. I sort of just guessed what you'd want."

Closing the door behind him, Tony asks, "Veggie?"

"And a plain cheese pizza for Peter," May says, nodding. "They also had a brownie on the menu as a specialty, so I ordered that because I know you've been craving all things chocolate, Pepper."

Rubbing her stomach, Pepper says, "That was awfully thoughtful, thank you."

"No problem," May assures, then says, "as long as you plan on sharing. I don't have to be pregnant to crave chocolate."

Thankfully, it doesn't take too long for the pizza to arrive. Once they have their plates full, they head into the living room and take their seats. Instead of crossing his legs and sitting on the floor, Peter plops down on the couch next to May. This doesn't go unnoticed. Tony shoots May a look, silently questioning it, and May just shrugs back. They think they're being subtle, but Peter catches the entire silent conversation as they settle in.

Pepper sits in the recliner so she can put her feet up, and Tony sits on the other side of Peter. Being sandwiched between May and Tony set off blaring alarms in his mind, but he takes a deep breath and tries to do what Jamie told him to do.

_Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium_

May picks up the remote and presses play.

_Boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen_

He looks down at the space between himself and Tony and himself and May. They're not even close to touching. It's safe.

_Fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium_

It's fine. This is good. He's not sweating or shaking. His heart is still beating a little fast, but that's bearable.

 _New memories, Peter._ Replace the bad ones.

"What movie is this?" he asks.

If any of them notice the waver in his voice, they don't mention it.

"It's called _Yesterday_ ," May says. "It's supposed to be about The Beatles or something, I don't know. Someone at work said it was really good."

If he's being honest, Peter couldn't tell you how good the first half hour is. He sits there, tense, running through the periodic table of elements as he focuses on not thinking about Beck or drifting back to the cabin.

After an unknown amount of time passes, Tony nudges his foot. Slightly startled, Peter looks up to his right and meets Tony's worried gaze. The man glances at the plate on Peter's lap before returning his eyes to Peter's face. "You should eat," he whispers, soft enough for only Peter's enhanced senses to hear.

He looks down at the untouched pizza on his plate and frowns. He forgot he even had pizza. It's probably cold by now, and he isn't a fan of cold pizza, but the look Tony's giving him makes it clear that he should at least eat something.

So, he picks up the cold pizza and takes a bite. It's cold and the sauce smears on his lips, but it's something to fill the hole in his stomach, so he chews and swallows.

By the time both slices of pizza on his plate are gone and his chest isn't constructed, the movie is over. May stretches and yawns silently, and Pepper's dozing in the recliner with her head lying on her shoulder.

"That was a good movie," May says, looking to Peter. "What'dya think, Peter?"

He smiles and nods. "Yeah, it was good." He couldn't tell her the plot, or even the main character's name, but it was good. He got through the whole thing without spiraling or mentally slipping back to the cabin.

After the three awake grab another slice of pizza and chat for a few minutes, Tony checks his watch and announces he and Pepper should head back. Tony gently wakes Pepper up with his hand on her shoulder and a kiss on her forehead.

A smile tugs at her lips before she even opens her eyes. When they blink open, she looks around and says, "Did I fall asleep?"

"Indeed you did." Tony brushes wisps of ginger hair out of her face. "Come on, we've invaded the Parker house for long enough."

With one hand in Tony's and the other on her stomach, she slowly stands. Peter stands by May in the kitchen while she baggies up the pizza to put in the fridge, watching Pepper carefully get to her feet. It's only a matter of time until they'll be holding that baby.

His mind slips, but instead of receding back to the cabin, it jumps ahead to the future where they're having movie nights every few nights and eating pizza and popcorn. Morgan's there, and she's probably around four years old, but even though she's the youngest she's dictating what they watch. A new Disney movie, probably, but for now Peter imagines it's _Frozen_ since literally every little kid is obsessed with it.

When the part when Elsa makes her ice castle, Morgan will jump up onto the couch and sing her heart out to _Let it Go_.

"Hey, kiddo, we're headed out," Tony says, reigning Peter back down to earth. Looking around, he realizes that May isn't in the kitchen anymore, she's with Pepper at the front door.

"Okay. Thanks for coming over," Peter says, and Tony smiles.

"You don't need to thank me, I'd take any opportunity to spend time with you, kid." His smile falters slightly and concern seeps through. "How was tonight? May said you usually don't like to sit on the couch anymore."

Not even needing to lie, Peter admits, "Yeah, but it's kind of a homework assignment Jamie gave me. I'm trying to replace bad memories with good ones, and tonight was . . . It was good."

The smile on his face widens and crinkles his eyes slightly. "That's good." Glancing over his shoulder at the two women chatting by the door, Tony says, "I don't say it enough Pete, but I really am proud of you."

Peter's heart swings. "I still have a ways to go before I'm, like, _better_ better."

"Still proud of you, no matter what. You're the strongest kid I know. No, scratch that," Tony backtracks, waving a hand around. "You're the strongest person in general I know. And I'm not just talking about those spider-muscles you're hiding under that hoodie."

A soft smile touches Peter's lips. "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"It's true. I'm just stating a fact."

Peter rolls his eyes but steps forward, wrapping his arms around Tony's middle and lying his head against his chest. His shoulders relax as he feels Tony's hand on his head.

"Are you two done with the heart-to-heart yet?" Pepper's voice calls. "I don't mean to rush you, but I'd like to get home and lie in bed before the sun comes up."

Peter feels Tony's chest bounce with his chuckles before they pull apart. "You heard the woman." He ruffles Peter's already messy hair and walks out to where Pepper and May are. "See you this weekend, Pete. Try to get your homework done before the weekend, I have a new project for us to work on."

•

He bolts upright and clutches his chest like he's holding his heart back from jumping out of his rib cage.

_Hand hands hands hands_

"Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen," he wheezes as his hand blindly searches for the light switch to his lamp. His hand feels heavy and he accidentally knocks the lamp off the small desk. It falls to the floor with a thud, thankfully not shattering.

His lungs aren't expanding.

He needs to—he needs to feel something, to ground himself. All he can feel are those _hands hands hands_ crawling under his clothes and over his skin. His mouth tastes like that awful thick liquid and his scalp burns—

He lets go of his hair and curls himself into a ball.

"Oxygen, fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium, aluminum, silicon, phosphorus, sulfur."

_"You feel so good, princess."_

Choking on his breath, Peter stumbles out of his sheets and slaps the light switch by his door. As soon as light floods the room, his eyes go to his phone and he lunges for it. With trembling fingers, he pulls up Tony's contact and presses on it. Holds the phone to his ear as he curls up into another ball on his bed, squeezing his eyes shut before shooting them wide open as he remembers Jamie's words.

_Keep your eyes open so you can be aware of your surroundings and avoid slipping further away._

His eyes stay open.

But Tony doesn't pick up.

He calls back, just in case, but the line rings and rings and rings until he gets the dial tone.

Fuck.

What now?

Barely keeping the tears at bay, Peter presses the next contact he sees and holds the phone against his ear.

It only rings twice.

_"What are you doing up?"_

Her voice is blissfully smooth yet monotone. Peter clutches onto the phone as if it were her.

"MJ," he whispers, unable to speak without his voice cracking or shaking. Even his whisper shakes pathetically. "I'm sorry. I didn't—Tony didn't pick up, and, and May's got an early shift, and Ned's at his cousin's house—"

There's movement. _"Parker, shut up. It's fine. What's wrong?"_

"It's stupid," he croaks, chin trembling. "My, my chest hurts, and I can taste—" He cuts himself off before he can embarrass himself, but he just ends up making a choking sound. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I'll hang up."

" _Don't hang up_ ," Michelle commands. _"I swear if you hang up, I'm going to march to Queens and bust through your fucking door."_

Peter gives in and closes his eyes again. "Okay."

" _Good. I can hear your uneven breathing, you need to take it easy. Try to follow my lead."_

Peter nods, even though she can't see, and tries to breathe along with her exaggerated breaths over the phone. It takes a while, and some slightly aggressive motivation from Michelle, but he slowly gets the hang of it.

After a while, Michelle asks, " _You still with me?"_

"With you," he whispers. It's much less shaky.

" _Okay. Good._ " There's a pause. " _Did you . . . did you want to talk about it? Or about something else?"_

Head light and chest fluttery still, Peter murmurs, "I don't know. It was . . . I had a dream. It's fine."

 _"Whatever you say, Parker,"_ Michelle says. " _But you didn't answer my question: Do you want to talk about it, or about something else? 'Cuz I'm not hanging up anytime soon."_

He hesitates. "Can we talk about something else?"

_"What?"_

"I don't really care. Anything."

He really shouldn't be surprised that Michelle starts talking about old, creepy murder cases. If it were any other night and he was talking with any other person, then he'd probably get freaked out and double-check that he locked his window and the front door. However, Michelle's voice soothes him. He lies on his back and closes his eyes as he listens to her talk.

About twenty minutes in, she stops the story and asks, _"Are you sleeping?"_

"No." His eyes peel open and he pulls his phone back to check the time. "Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you up all night, especially since we have school tomorrow. I can—"

_"Can I tell you something?"_

His brow furrows. "Yeah."

" _I had a sister,_ " Michelle says, and Peter's confusion only deepens. " _She was three years older than me. Her name was Gwen."_

_Was. Was. Was._

His heart sinks at the realization.

" _She was . . . perfect. And fucking annoying, she was annoying because she was perfect, but I still looked up to her because she was always so happy."_ There's a long pause. Peter hears Michelle take a deep breath. " _Anyways, one day I heard her crying in her room. I was curious why the happiest person I knew was crying, so I pressed my ear against her door and heard her talking to our mom about how our uncle molested her."_

Peter's blood runs cold.

 _"My mom didn't want to believe her brother was a predator,"_ Michelle says, voice thick yet somehow still monotone. " _So nothing happened. Three months later, I found Gwen in her room lying in a pool of her own blood with a knife in her limp hand."_

 _"_ MJ . . . _"_

 _"That's why my mom started doing drugs, and my dad started throwing himself into his work,"_ she says. " _It's been three years, and Uncle Steven still comes over every Christmas and I can't even say anything."_

Petersits up and pulls his knees up to his chest. "Michelle, I'm so sorry, I can't . . . That's so screwed up."

He hears her take a moment to collect herself. " _Sorry. I didn't mean to make this about me, or anything. I just—I just wanted you to know that I'm not going to let that happen to you. You're not allowed to leave me like Gwen did."_

"I won't," Peter promises, on the verge of tears for the second time that night. "MJ, I'm so sorry about, about all of that. I had no idea."

" _It's okay_." She sniffs. _"I know I'm usually emotionally cut off, but you should know that I actually care about you, Peter. And I'm glad Beck's in prison for life."_

Peter frowns. "I'm sorry your uncle isn't. That isn't fair, it isn't _right_."

" _Trust me, I know. But there's nothing I can do."_

That doesn't sit right with Peter. How could that sit right with _anyone_? He couldn't even imagine what happened to him being done by a family member, then not being believed. He was so fortunate that Tony believed him when he finally opened up about what happened. Not one person told him he was lying or that it was his fault. He didn't think it was possible, but he feels _lucky_ , and it's a guilty feeling.

After a pregnant pause, Peter says, "Thank you for telling me."

" _Thank you for being someone I could tell."_

•

Peter and Michelle end up talking on the phone for another hour before Michelle falls asleep and Peter hangs up. Just as he's putting his phone down to go back to sleep too, his screen lights up with Tony's caller ID.

He doesn't have time to say anything after answering the call before Tony's voice rushes out, "Peter! Thank God."

Peter frowns at the phone. "What?"

" _The one time I fall asleep before three in the morning, I miss two calls from you,"_ Tony rambles. " _What's wrong? Are you okay?"_

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. I'm fine."

" _Oh_." Pause. " _Good. Okay. Then why'd you call me at one in the morning?"_

Peter releases a heavy sigh. "I had a nightmare and woke up with a panic attack, but it's okay, I'm fine now. I got ahold of MJ and she helped. I actually just got off the phone with her before you called."

" _You sure you're good now? I can always fly over real fast_."

"I'm sure, Mr. Stark, but thanks," Peter yawns. "I'm tired, so I'm going to head to bed."

" _Sorry for not picking up when you needed me. I'll get an alarm set or something so that I for sure get woken up if you call again. In the meantime, get some rest,"_ Tony says.

"Sounds like a plan." Peter yawns again, lying down in bed and pulling the covers up to his chin. "Goodnight, Mr. Stark."

_"Goodnight, Underoos."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: today marks this story's one month anniversary since i've started writing it


	25. Retribution

It's been six months since Tony and Rhodey found Peter in the cabin and took him home. That means it has been eight months since he wore the suit. Eight months without Spider-Man. Eight months of ignoring the people of Queens and letting them fend for themselves in times of need.

"It's not your responsibility," Jamie told him once. "I mean, I'm sure we'd all love to see Spider-Man make a reappearance, but everyone's well-being doesn't fall on your shoulders."

It's a nice thought. When he hears the sirens blaring outside his window or when he sees a missing person poster or hears about a murder in the streets, he knows it isn't his fault he didn't stop it. But he knows he could have. It's knowing that he can do something that builds the guilt and restlessness. The other night, he was awoken by fire trucks racing past the apartment towards a library on fire. His instincts kicked in and he bolted from bed to grab the new suit Tony made him hanging in his closet.

He was down to his boxers and had one leg into the suit when he stopped.

Spider-Man hasn't made an appearance since last May. It's the end of February now. Multiple news sources claim that his alter ego is likely dead or retired. Most sources claim he's dead for a bigger excitement factor.

He can't just suddenly swing into action as if nothing happened. What if everyone thinks he's an imposter? What if he gets kidnapped again?

He must've made too much noise bounding out of bed and jumping out of his clothes because there was a knock on his door.

"Peter? You okay, honey?"

With a long sigh, Peter stepped out of the suit, kicked it aside, and slumped onto his bed. "Yeah, May. I'm good." He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed them. "Sorry for waking you up, you can go back to bed."

He's getting better. He knows he's getting better, but when May poked her head in his room the next morning and spots the discarded suit on the floor, her eyes widened.

"You went out in the suit?"

The fear in her voice spiked his heart rate as he jumped out of bed. "No, I just—I woke up to the sirens and I wasn't even thinking I just started to put it on." Nearing his aunt and meeting her panicked gaze, he assured, "I didn't even put it on all the way."

May's nod was jerky. "Okay. Good."

His heart fell a little at that. It's been six months, half a year, and she's still completely against him putting the suit back on. Honestly, yeah, he's nervous about it, but he's also getting antsy.

He can help people, people like him and people like Michelle's sister. He's in the right frame of mind to make a difference again.

But he isn't.

Despite Jamie's claims that it isn't his responsibility and Tony's assurances that he can take as long as he needs before putting the suit back on, he wants to help. He wants to help people _now._

Ever since Michelle opened up that night and told Peter the story of her sister Gwen, he's been going stir crazy. He's been so caught up about what happened to him that he didn't even stop to think about everyone else who have been taken advantage of, people he can help. Maybe he can prevent someone from waking up screaming, from sobbing in the shower, from not thinking that it gets better. He can bring safety.

He can also bring justice.

It only takes a few days after the phone call with Michelle for Peter to search up a Steven from New York. He doesn't know the surname since Steven is Michelle's mom's brother and her mom changed her last name to Jones when she got married, but after doing some digging—or just resorting to scrolling through Mrs. Jones's Facebook profile—he finds a forty-year-old Steven Wescott with an address in Staten Island.

That's when Peter slips on his mask for the first time. It takes a second, then Karen comes to life.

_"Hello, Peter. It's good to have you back."_

"I'm not entirely back yet, but it's good to see you too, Karen," Peter mutters, pulling up Steven's Facebook page. The sight of his white hair and beady eyes that pierce through the screen send a shudder down his spine. "Hey, could you run this guy in? See if he has any criminal records or anything?"

_"I'll do my best with what resources I can access."_

"Thanks." Peter pauses. It's . . . It's nice hearing her voice again. "I missed you, Karen."

_"I missed you too, Peter."_

She may be an A.I., but that still makes him smile.

_"Would you like me to read you what I've found on Steven Q. Wescott?"_

Leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk, Peter says, "Fire away."

_"According to public records, Steven Q. Wescott is a forty-year-old male resident of the town Chelsea in the city of Staten Island, New York, where he lives with girlfriend Hilary McMains. Wescott graduated from Moore Catholic High School in 1998 and attended a community college for an associate's degree in mechanics. From 2001 through 2007, Wescott was a substitute teacher at Madison Grant Middle School in Manhattan. Wescott is currently employed at a Subaru factory in Staten Island. He frequents Foxy Gentlemen's Club, an adult entertainment club in Brooklyn, and is a member of Al's Bowling Alley, also in Brooklyn."_

"A middle school teacher?" Peter echoes under his breath, brow furrowed. "You didn't read anything about any criminal record?"

_"I'm afraid not."_

"Okay," Peter mutters, "how about any charges that may have been dropped? Or anything that came up from the time he spent substitute teaching?"

 _"Searching now."_ After a few seconds of silence, Karen says, " _In 2003 twelve-year-old McKenna Bailey reported Wescott, but the charges were dropped."_

Peter's heart jumps to his throat. "Reported for what?"

_"It does not say."_

"Shit," Peter hisses, aggressively tapping his pencil against his desk. "Twelve in 2003 . . . So McKenna would be, what, thirty now?"

_"That is correct."_

Leaning his elbows against his desk, Peter says, "Can you pull up everything you can find on McKenna Bailey?"

_"Give me a minute."_

He's not sure what he plans to do when he gets the information, or why he even wants it. Some part of him just wants check up on her, maybe, to make sure she didn't suffer the same fate as Michelle's sister. He knows--he knows--how it feels to be violated and to never feel like that'd go away. He's felt that hopelessness, that agony, and he still feels it sometimes, so he gets why Gwen did what she did. He was close to doing it himself. While he waits for Karen to report the information, he prays that McKenna was able to fight it.

" _McKenna Bailey,_ " Karen says, and Peter holds his breath, " _now McKenna Cortez, thirty-year-old woman currently residing in Yellow Springs, Ohio with husband Juan Carlos Cortez and daughter Lillian Cortez. Cortez is a pediatric nurse at Miami Valley Hospital in Dayton, Ohio."_

For a brief moment, Peter considers tracking McKenna down. Michelle said she couldn't do anything about Steven because Gwen killed herself, and there isn't any proof or witnesses or even the victim to press charges. There's _nothing_. Mrs. Jones knows, but she doesn't believe it even happened, so Steven is a free man. But, what if there was another victim who could press charges? If he just talked to her and convinced her that what Steven did to her wasn't an isolated incident, then she'd press charges, right? And even if the case doesn't hold up in court after so many years, then at least Steven would have a stain on his squeaky clean record. It's not justice, but it's better than getting off completely scot-free.

As soon as the thought pops into his head, Peter shuts it down and mentally berates himself for even thinking about that. McKenna obviously moved on and healed. She has a whole life now--a daughter, a husband, a career--and Peter was selfish enough to even think about shoving the past in her face? To bring up old demons?

She doesn't need that.

"Okay, thank you, Karen," Peter murmurs.

_"You're welcome, Peter."_

With a sigh, Peter peels the mask off and tosses it to his bed. He rubs his forehead and closes his eyes.

His phone buzzes beside him. Startling, Peter cards a hand through his hair and shoots his hand out to grab his phone. He answers the call without even looking at the caller ID.

Resting his chin in his hand, he mumbles, "Hello?"

" _Hey, Pete. Whatcha up to?_ " Tony asks, his voice suspiciously casual.

Sparing a glance at Steve's Facebook profile still open on his laptop, he says, "Nothing."

" _Okay. Well, I got an alert that you put the mask on._ "

Oh. That's what this is about.

Turning in his chair to face the mask lying limply on his bed, Peter says, "I was just talking to Karen, don't worry. I know you and Aunt May don't want me to go patrolling again."

Unfortunately, Tony picks up on the subtle disappointment in his tone. " _It isn't that we don't want you to ever go out again, we just . . . I think, at this point, that if you say you're ready, then I'll be on board."_

"I don't think Aunt May would say the same," Peter mutters.

 _"You know how she worries,"_ Tony sympathizes, then pauses. _"Are you ready? To put the mask back on, that is."_

"I don't know, maybe?" If he isn't sure, then that probably means he isn't ready. "I'm getting there. I have to fight the urge to jump out of my window every time I hear a siren."

" _That's the Underoos I know,_ " Tony says, and Peter can imagine him smiling. " _If you want, I can always talk to your aunt and, you know, send some subliminal messages to try to get her warmed up to the idea of you swinging around the city again."_

Peter lets out a breathy laugh. "That's okay, I think I'll try talking to her about it sometime."

" _If you're sure_."

"I'm sure. Thanks, though."

" _Let me know if you change your mind," Tony says. "Alright, I'll let you get back to talking with Karen. See ya this weekend._ "

"Okay, bye."

He tosses his phone onto his bed once the call ends. Turning back to his laptop and meeting the unblinking eyes of Steven Wescott, Peter pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and pictures the man's mugshot. Then, with a jolt, he realizes that _Beck_ has a mugshot.

He hasn't seen him since being rescued six months ago. After spending so much time alone with him, that man being his only form of human interaction for almost two solid months, he wonders how he looks in the mugshot with the lies stripped back. Who he really is behind the deception and fabricated love.

"Karen?" Peter says, pulling the mask back on. "Pull up everything you can find on Quentin Beck."

_"Here's what I found: Quentin Beck, thirty-two, graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 2009. In 2012, Beck was hired to Stark Industries and is accredited with aiding the development of the Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing, B.A.R.F. for short, before losing his job in 2017. On July 25, of 2020, Beck was arrested under the charges of kidnapping, a minor in possession, psychological torture, physical torture, and fraud."_

"Could you . . ." Peter clears his throat. "Could you pull up a picture of the mugshot on the lenses, please?"

" _Of course, Peter._ "

An image pops onto the screen of his mask's lenses. It elicits a choked gasp from Peter.

It's undeniably Beck.

The beard, the sharp nose, the blue eyes, the slightly tanned skin. It's Beck, but it isn't the man Peter lived with for two months. This is the man who told him he loved him, the eyes that danced over his every feature and his entire body. His hair is unkempt, his eyes holding a crazed, unhinged look in them. Sometimes Quentin would get that look, but only for a fraction of a second before the adoration returned. In the mugshot, though, that crazed look is on full display.

Feeling like Beck's eyes are actually staring back into his, a full-body shiver runs through him.

"I hate you," he whispers, his lips barely moving.

But it isn't enough. The words fall dead in the silence of his bedroom. He wants—he _needs_ to tell Beck that to his face. The desire to scream in his face about how Peter's _healing_ , how he's _moving on_ , rages in him like a hurricane.

He wants to look this man in the eyes and tell him that he doesn't have any control over him anymore.

"Where is he being held?" Peter grinds out.

Karen responds almost instantly, " _The Vault, located in Maryland_." A pause. " _Would you like directions?_ "

He glances back at the suit in his closet. Setting his pencil on his table, he says, "Could you save them for later?"

" _Of course. Anything else_?"

"Yes, actually." Gnawing on his bottom lip, he requests, "Bring up the directions to Steven Wescott's residence."

•

• goes by Skip  
• friends with the old couple next door  
• goes out every Friday night to strip club, leaves strip club after 4 hours  
• leaves for work at 7:30 every morning except Wednesdays  
• Wednesdays leaves for work at 7:00 to have enough time to stop by coffee shop for their Wednesday free cup of coffee  
• returns from work at 5:00  
• eats dinner w/ girlfriend every night  
• watches porn before bed  
• goes to sleep around 11:00  
• not a fan of dogs

Peter looks down at his scrappy list he's accumulated over the past three weeks of watching Steven.

If it weren't for the lack of enthusiasm around dogs and the knowledge that he's a pedophile and rapist, then Peter would assume that Steven was just a regular guy.

For the past three weeks—unbeknownst to anyone but Karen—Peter has been staking Steven out like a spy. He's in the full suit (after hacking into it and deactivating nearly every protocol Tony had installed to track his location and to alert him of when he puts the suit on. He leaves early in the morning after May leaves for work and swings straight over to Staten Island to watch Steven's alarm clock to blare at 6:30 and awaken him from a peaceful slumber. Then, he watches him get on with his morning—eggs with a protein shake and a piece of toast for breakfast, Colgate cool mint toothpaste, ten minute cold shower—and leave for work. It's around that time that Peter usually swings back to Queens to get ready for school. Once he's out of school and May is still at work, Peter swings back over to Staten Island to catch Steven drive home from the Subaru factory. Sometimes Peter will return back to the apartment before May gets off work, but other times he calls ahead and says he's hanging out with Michelle and Ned so he can continue his stake out. Steven never fails to end his uneventful day with a good hour of porn and getting himself off.

For a while, Peter didn't think anything of it because that's pretty normal. However, the fact that Steven's girlfriend Hilary is always asleep next to him when he does it, strikes him as odd.

Now Peter doesn't want to be a pervert or anything, but he's noticed something about the relationship between Steven and Hilary: he hasn't seen them have sex once. Which is preferable, but still odd. And it's obvious that Steven has that desire because he literally gets himself off to porn every single night with Hilary sleeping soundly next to him, but he never once wakes her up. They kiss and cuddle, but it never goes past that (thankfully).

Peter would really rather not see what porn Steven's watching, but the feeling of a heavy rock in his stomach prompts him to creep towards the window one night and try a different angle to catch a glimpse of his laptop screen.

What he sees makes him want to throw up.

Scratch that, he does throw up.

Barely managing to pull his mask up and over his nose in time, Peter stumbles back from the window and heaves into the bushes.

It was a _kid_.

A _kid_ being raped by much older _man_.

That's . . . That's illegal, right? That's child pornography? The little girl had to be no older than twelve. And the man . . . His hair is peppered with grays.

Holy shit.

Hands shaking, Peter pulls his mask back down and hurriedly swings back to Queens before he can spiral into a full-blown panic attack.

•

The music pumping in his ears and the dark purple and red lights disorient his sense of direction. He stumbles forward slightly when someone bumps into his shoulder, their drink splashing some drops onto his jacket.

If May or Tony knew where he was, they'd probably have a conniption, clutch their hearts, then keel over.

To be honest, standing in the strip club Steven retreats to every single Friday night with mostly-naked women and drunk men with tight pants, Peter feels pretty close to keeling over himself. The fake ID burns a hole in his pocket and doesn't help his nerves in the slightest.

 _Act natural._ He stands on the tips of his toes to peer over heads, searching for a certain head of white-blond hair.

The scorching feeling of someone staring at him makes him turn. He quickly averts his gaze when he realizes it was one of the strippers—a woman with sparkly pumps and bare breasts—unashamedly undressing him with her sultry eyes.

_Focus focus focus_

He's pretty sure he's the only sober one in the whole place other than the strippers. The men are downing drinks like they're free and reaching out to touch the woman dancing at the poles. He hears some of the women warn them to "watch with their eyes, not their hands."

Peter's nerves are all over the place. He has to shove his hands into his jacket pockets to conceal how badly they're shaking. Hopefully the darkness and weird shadows of the room hide how young he looks.

"You lost, baby?"

His head whips around. A woman—fully clothed, thank goodness—stands behind him. She's a tall, slender woman dressed in a tight black dress that stops just below her crotch. Her hot red lips are pouting and concern shines in her brown eyes when she sees his face.

Alarms ring in his head. "Oh, no. Thank you, though."

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she lets it go. "Alright. If you change your mind or if you need something, you can find me behind the bar. I'm Ginger."

"O-Okay, thank you, Ginger."

She flashes him a closed-lip smile. "Stay safe, hon." Turning, she heads to the crowded bar.

As soon as she's gone, Peter releases a breath and looks around. _Focus, Peter. Just find Steven and keep an eye on him._

He ignores the topless women and walks further in. It isn't until he's in the middle of the crowd when he spots the man he's looking for.

Steven's laughing with a man a few inches shorter of him. He's wearing a button-up and dark slacks, a can of beer in his hands. After throwing his head back and chugging the rest, he crinkles the can and tosses it at a woman on the table, bending over as she peels off booty shorts. She throws up her middle finger but doesn't stop the show she's putting on.

 _How do people like these kinds of environments?_ Peter wonders, side-glancing a woman pouring alcohol over a man's face while he holds his mouth wide open with his tongue hanging out. Everything looks filthy, it smells of weed, alcohol, and sex, and the lights mixed with the music is dizzying.

Okay, maybe if he wasn't still recovering from a traumatic sexual experience or if he wasn't on a mission then he'd be more into the whole top-less women thing, but right now none of this is appealing in the slightest. All the men seem like creeps.

It makes sense that Steven would go here every week.

Before he can lose him, Peter loosely follows Steven as the man diverges from the person he was talking with. Peter's brow furrows when, after throwing a glance over his shoulder, Steven opens a door in the back by the restrooms and steps outside.

Unease stirring in his stomach, Peter doesn't waste time heading out the front doors and into the darkness of the evening. After making sure no one is watching, he scales the building and crosses the roof to peer down at the back where Steven disappeared.

Behind the building is a small parking lot cornered by other buildings and a brick wall serving as a privacy fence. There's a single van parked there.

Steven is speaking with another man. This one is large—large shoulders, large neck, large biceps. His face is set in a permanent scowl.

Before he can eavesdrop on their conversation it ends and Steven passes Fat Neck a wad of cash that makes Peter's eyes widen. As Steven rocks back and forth on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets, Fat Neck counts the bills. Satisfied, he slides the money into his jacket and nods towards a different side door beside the one Steven used to access the outside lot where they're standing.

Peter tries to see what's inside the room when Fat Neck opens the door for Steven, but from his angle above them, it's impossible. There's a sharp sensation that shoots down his spine from the back of his neck.

"What are you up to?" he whispers, then steps back from the edge to peel his hoodie off, revealing the Spider-a man suit underneath. He quickly shuffles out of his jeans and kicks them to lie next to his jacket. He pulls his mask on and says, "Karen, could you run facial recognition over the guy down there?"

" _It would be my pleasure, Peter_."

He looks over the ledge again. Fat Neck is standing in front of the closed door with his hands clasped in front of him like he's guarding the door. His eyes shift from the left to the right, then down at his watch.

More alarming sensations tingle the base of his neck.

" _Scott Ward_ ," Karen reports. " _Arrested in 1998 for drug trafficking, then arrested again in 2008 for domestic violence."_

"So not a good guy," Peter mutters. "Okay, well, what could he—"

He cuts himself off when his ears pick up the distinct sound of moaning.

Ice in his veins, his eyes shoot to the door, to the Ward guarding the door, to the van, and then to the door again.

 _Fuck_.

This better not be what he thinks it is.

He _prays_ it isn't that.

Without another thought, Peter whips out his arm and shoots a web at Ward. It sticks to his mouth, effectively shutting him up from making any noises to alert Steven.

Ward stumbles back and cranes his neck to watch as Peter drops from the roof and lands in front of him on silent feet. Ward's eyes are blown large and shoot daggers at Peter, but he can't even take a step forward before Peter nails him right across the face and then webs him to the ground where he hits the asphalt.

Incapacitated and probably not conscious, Peter turns to the door and yanks it open. He accidentally uses too much strength and rips it right off its hinges.

For a split second, his whole body freezes. Because there, on a dirty mattress shoved in the corner of the tiny room, is a naked Steven on top of a naked little girl that can't possibly be older than seven.

"Yo, what the fuck?" Steven exclaims, jumping up and turning, covering his erection he just slipped out of the girl.

The look in Steven's eyes—the same look he has seen in Beck's during the roughest nights in the cabin—snaps Peter back into action. He blinks, and suddenly Steven is on the ground, nose bleeding and limp and webbed to the floor.

Chest rising and falling erratically, Peter turns to the girl. She has curled into a ball and is pressing her small, battered body into the corner as whimpers escape her trembling lips.

"Hey, it's okay," Peter says, voice high and coming out as a wheeze because _holy shit he can't breathe._

When he takes a tentative step closer, she lets out a fearful cry and presses closer to the wall.

"I'll be right back," Peter promises, "I'm going to grab you some clothes, okay? I'll be right back."

She doesn't respond, but he didn't really expect her to.

After launching himself back up onto the roof to grab his hoodie, he returns to the little girl with the hoodie extended.

"Here," he says, trying to keep his voice soothe and the farthest from intimidating. "I promise I'm not like those guys, okay? I promise."

She peers at him, blinking against her tears, then slowly reaches out to take the hoodie. She struggles to pull it over herself, so Peter asks, "Do you want me to help? Would that be alright?"

Not only does he want her to be covered for privacy, but it's also freezing outside. He can't tell if her body is shivering from the biting cold or if she's shaking from fear.

"Yes please," she whispers, and Peter kneels in front of her and gently guides the hoodie over her head. She wipes the blonde hair out of her face as Peter straightens the hoodie and helps her poke her arms through the sleeves that hang off her frail bones. 

The hoodie covers her like a dress. Peter may be slightly smaller than most boys his age, but his hoodie is plenty big for this little girl.

As soon as she's covered, she huddles back into the corner and watches Peter like a wild animal.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Peter promises again. Glancing at Steven to ensure he's still out cold, Peter turns back to the little girl. He pulls his mask up over his face. "I'm a kid too, see? I . . ." He swallows thickly. "It's okay. You're safe now, I'm going to make sure this doesn't ever happen again, okay?"

She just nods. A tear runs down her dirty face, and she wipes it away with his hoodie sleeve.

"I'm Peter," he says, because what else is he supposed to say to a child who has been violated so roughly? "What's your name?"

She looks up at him with big doe eyes. They cut him deep, knowing what horrors she's seen and been through.

"Alyssa."

"Alyssa?" He repeats, voice cracking. When she nods, he says, "That's a—that's a pretty name. What's your last name?"

"Hershel."

He nods. He nods too fast. _Pull yourself together, Peter._

"Okay." His hands are shaking so bad that it takes a second for him to grip his mask to pull it back down. "Alyssa, I know you're scared, but I promise you're safe now. I'm going to call 911 so the police come and take away the bad guys and so the doctors can come make sure you're okay. Okay?"

Still trembling, she nods. "Are you gonna leave me?"

His heart aches. "I'll stay with you, if that's what you want."

She nods again.

"Okay. I'm not going anywhere." Leaning back slightly, he murmurs, "Karen, call 911. Tell them the situation."

" _On it._ "

"They'll be here soon," Peter tells Alyssa. "They're going to take us in an ambulance to the hospital where they'll have to do some tests, okay? They'll be uncomfortable, but I promise they're not going to hurt you, not like they did." He points to Steven behind him. "It's . . . it's going to be hard," he admits, voice faltering, "but if I can do it, so can you."

Her eyes flicker up to the whites of the Spider-Man mask's lenses. "You did the tests?"

Peter sits cross-legged in front of her. "Yeah, I did. Um . . . Something happened to me, like what happened to you."

She blinks and shifts her gaze to Steven's body. In a whisper, she asks, "Did he touch you too?"

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and breathes deeply through his nose. After a beat, he says, "He didn't, but someone else did."

A frown pinches her soft features. "Why? Why did he . . . Why did he do that?"

His throat tightens. "Some people do bad things for no reason."

Alyssa doesn't respond to that. Instead, she wordlessly looks at Peter before crawling forward. He tenses when she settles herself in his lap, but when she snuggles her head into his chest, he loosens and wraps his arms around her protectively.

She sniffs. It turns into a whimper, then she starts sobbing. Peter closes his eyes and just holds her shaking body as her tiny fists clench his suit. He whispers reassurances in her ear, somehow managing to hold his own tears back.

He hears the sirens from three miles out. When the red and blue flash against the walls, he doesn't move. Cops aim their weapons at Steven and Scott Ward, but he doesn't move. It isn't until someone—a paramedic—touches his shoulder that he uncurls himself from around Alyssa's body.

"Alyssa Hershel," he says, the girl tightening her grip on him. He keeps an arm under her and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles into her back. "Her name is Alyssa Hershel."

The paramedic is a short woman with her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Thankfully, she lets Peter hold Alyssa and leads him to the ambulance parked in the back of the lot. He steps up into the open back and tries to set Alyssa down on the gurney inside, but she clings onto him.

"It's okay," the paramedic says with a kind smile. "You can sit, I can still check her over and talk with her when you're holding her."

The gurney squeaks a little when he sits, his legs hanging below him. He runs Alyssa's back. "Alyssa, can you talk to her, please? She just wants to help you."

She looks up from Peter's chest and eyes the woman warily.

The paramedic smiles. "Hi, sweetie. I'm Holly. I see you've got Spider-Man with you. Do you like Spider-Man?"

Alyssa nods. "My favorite superhero."

Peter's heart breaks a little more at her small voice.

Holly's smile widens. "Yeah? He's my favorite too." Her eyes flicker to Peter before returning to Alyssa. Peter knows what needs to happen next before Holly even says anything.

Alyssa doesn't want to talk about what happened, so Peter recounts what he witnessed. He's glad for the mask in that moment; without it, Holly would see the haunted look in his face as he describes what he walked in on.

He blinks the images away and takes a deep breath.

They still need Alyssa's recount, but Holly says it's enough for now and they'll talk more at the hospital when they do the sexual assault examination kit.

It hits him hard when she mentions the rape kit. He had to do one. The fact that this little girl has to . . .

It's a miracle he doesn't break down the entire ride to the hospital. By telling himself to hold it together for Alyssa, he manages to hold back his sobs and screams of anguish while he waits with Alyssa in the hospital room. He stays and holds her hand when she whispers what Steven did.

It isn't until Alyssa's mother and father show up that the girl lets go of him.

Her mother cries into her hair as her father wraps his wife and daughter in a desperate hug.

Peter doesn't fit there anymore. He did what he needed to do, and Alyssa doesn't need him anymore, so he gives her a hug and promises her that she's going to be okay before leaving.

He doesn't remember the swing home. He blinks, and then the next second he's curling into a ball in his bed still in his suit.

Pressing his face into his pillow, he screams.  
  
  



	26. Comeback

It's almost eight o'clock on a school morning, and Peter is still in bed hiding under his covers.

When he didn't come out of his room at his usual time, May knocked on his door and Peter told her he felt sick and couldn't go to school. He knows fully well that May knows that he can't get sick after the spider bite, but she must hear the brokenness and exhaustion in his voice because she kisses his forehead before telling him to call her if he needs anything before heading off to work.

He's still in the suit. It's hidden under the blanket, but he can't put in the effort to take it off.

Last night left him . . . honestly? It left him feeling like the last few months of healing never even happened. The suit protects him from Beck's hands and, if he stays in bed long enough, he won't have to get out to face breakfast or an empty apartment.

On his nightstand, Ned is blowing up his phone. There's also two texts from Michelle, but the constant buzzing is from Ned's spamming.

He doesn't want to deal with Spider-Man's return and what that means. He doesn't want to deal with the reality of the night before, or even the reality of last summer as it lurks in the forefront of his brain.

He doesn't want to deal with anything.

So, curled up in his covers, Peter stays sedentary. Praying that the world would just _stop_.

He hates it. The world, that is. It's so messy and vile and twisted. A creep kidnapped Peter and manipulated him into playing husband. A child predator raped Michelle's sister and pushed her to suicide, leaving Michelle to bite her tongue at family gatherings. With dread swinging low in his stomach, Peter wonders if Steven ever touched Michelle like he touched her sister. That same fucking guy watches little kids get raped on his laptop every single night to get himself off and once a week rapes one himself in the back room of a strip club. People pay money for that, and people get paid for handing little girls and boys off to other creeps like they're worthless dolls. And this is _normal_.

There has to be countless other kids like Alyssa out there. Unlike Alyssa, Peter didn't save them. They're either dead and decaying or alive and rotting.

A knock on the front door pulls Peter from his spiraling thoughts, but he ignores it and keeps his eyes closed and doesn't move.

Just when he thinks the person went away, his phone buzzes. Peter tilts his head up and opens one eye.

**From: Tony**  
> open the door

Releasing a sigh, Peter pushes himself off his bed. He looks down at himself in the suit then slowly peels it off, tugging on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt before dragging his feet to the front door.

Tony stares at him—his gaze calculating and hiding concern—for a few moments before pulling his phone out and showing the screen to Peter.

His heavy-lidded eyes shift from Tony to the phone.

**_Spider-Man Makes a Surprise Comeback Single-handedly Uncovering a Human Trafficking Ring_ **

At the top of the _New York Times_ article is a picture of him holding Alyssa as he carried her to the ambulance. Her small fists gripped his suit and her head was buried under his chin.

He can feel her weight in his arms and looks away.

"I'm still wondering why I wasn't alerted when you put on the suit, or when you stayed out past your old curfew, or when you disabled nearly all the protocols I put in place to keep you safe."

His head feels fuzzy. Turning away from the door, Peter ghosts over to the table in the kitchen and slumps into a chair. He folds his arms on the table and lies his head down in them.

His ears prick at the sound of the door closing and Tony's footsteps approaching the table before a chair scrapes against the floor. Tony breathes, "Oh, Pete."

"I'm not going to apologize for going behind your back," he murmurs into his arms.

"I didn't want you to." Pause. "Were you planning on making a reappearance as Spider-Boy last night, or was this a spur-of-the-moment thing?"

Still hunched over the table, Peter lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Both. I wore the suit out but didn't think I'd actually have to . . ." He sniffs. "I didn't realize I'd catch a trafficking deal when I went to that strip club."

"Okay . . . So are you going to tell me why you were at a strip club to begin with?"

"Knew he was gonna be there."

"Who?"

Peter looks up, setting his chin on his folded arms. Tony's brow is furrowed as he tries to make sense of the mess that is Peter Parker.

"Steven Wescott," Peter says, his eyes falling to the table. He traces the grain of the wood. "He's MJ's uncle."

Tony goes deathly still. "Did he . . . ?"

"He raped her sister a while ago," Peter says, his voice cracking on the second. "She committed suicide. Nothing happened to him. I had to . . ." His eyes flash to Tony's. "I had to do _something_. It wasn't fair that Beck was imprisoned and Steven was free."

Tony nods, his fingers tapping against the table. "So you followed Steven to the strip club?"

"I've been watching him for weeks," Peter admits in a small voice. "I knew his schedule. When I saw . . . I saw some red flags, and my gut had this feeling, so Karen helped me get a fake ID so I could watch him when he went there. I knew he went there once a week on Friday nights, and I had a bad feeling about it, but I didn't expect to have to . . ." He runs his hands through his unruly curls and bites down on his lip hard. "She was so small, and so s-scared. And the look in his eyes—it was the same look Beck had when we were—when he was—"

"Hey, it's okay," Tony soothes, trying to meet Peter's gaze. "You got him. Everyone's safe."

"But that's the _thing_." Peter leans back in his chair. "Everyone's _not_ safe. There are so many other people like Alyssa, so many other people like me and Gwen and there's so many bad people that it's never going to _stop_."

"And that's not your fault."

"But I can still help," Peter counters, voice firm. He meets Tony's gaze as the man studies him. "I have the ability to save some people from having to go through what I did while bringing the bad people to justice. You get that, right? I mean, that's sort of why you became Iron Man in the first place, because you had the resources to help people?"

Tony's eyes flicker between Peter's. Rubbing his nose, the man says, "In a way. I was fixing my mistakes, holding my company accountable, righting some wrongs."

"You saw that you could help people, so you did," Peter presses on. "That's what I did last night. When I heard Steven . . . And when I saw . . ." He presses his lips in a straight line and rubs his temple, taking a moment to just breathe. Thankfully, Tony lets him have his space and doesn't interrupt as Peter gathers his thoughts. His head is so _loud_. Dropping his hands to the table and making eye-contact with Tony, Peter says, "I want to be Spider-Man again."

The corner of Tony's lip quirks. "I think you decided that last night."

Peter pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and nods. "Aunt May's going to freak out when she hears what happened."

Tony tilts his head. "Maybe at first, but I think she'll understand."

"I lied to her," he says, frowning. "I told her I was at Ned's last night. She's going to—"

"Be a little hysterical," Tony cuts Peter off. "But when she realizes what you did last night, she'll be immensely proud of you." He shrugs. "I know I am."

Peter's phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out, expecting to see May's contact, but instead it's Michelle's. His brow pulls forward and he pushes his chair out from the table to stand. "I'm going to go take this."

"May?"

"MJ," Peter corrects, answering the call as he walks out of the kitchen towards his room. "Hey."

" _Hey_ ," Michelle echoes. " _You're not at school_."

"Yeah."

" _I know why_."

Peter closes his eyes, leaning against his closed bedroom door. "MJ, look, I know I might have pushed some boundaries or, or taken advantage of what you told me the other day, and I'm sorry, but—"

" _Are you seriously apologizing for busting my sister's rapist and a child trafficker, not to mention saving that little girl from the hell she was living_?"

Peter gulps. "So you don't regret telling me?"

There's a humorless scoff. " _No, Peter. I don't regret telling you. I'm—_ " She takes a deep breath. " _I'm glad I don't ever have to see Uncle Steven ever again. Thank you._ "

"It was no problem," Peter murmurs. Looking up to the ceiling, he warily asks, "So, uh, Steven never . . . He never touched you, right?"

The three seconds that Michelle pauses stretch for hours.

" _No_."

Peter's shoulders drop in relief.

" _He's been creepy, but he's never tried anything_."

"Okay." Peter nods. "Okay. Good."

Michelle's quiet for a moment. Then, she says, " _Are you okay, Peter?_ "

"Yeah, of course. What do you mean?"

" _Last night couldn't have been easy. Were you alone last night when you got home?_ "

He lifts his hand and chews on his thumb nail. "Yeah."

" _You could've called me_."

"I know. I just . . . I needed to be alone." He thinks back to the screaming he did into his pillow. How his heart broke over and over every time he thought about that little girl he left at the hospital.

" _Are you alone now?_ "

To keep himself from chewing his thumbnail too far down, he crosses his arm over his chest. "Mr. Stark's here. He saw the news."

" _Everyone has_ ," Michelle remarks. " _It's probably a good thing you're not here, that's all anyone's talking about. Flash is probably more excited than anyone else to know that Spider-Man's still alive_."

Peter winces. "Yeah. I don't know how I'm going to explain my disappearance."

" _Then don't. You don't owe the media anything. As far as they know, you went on vacation_."

"For almost nine full months?"

" _That's none of their business_."

Peter sighs. "I guess you're right."

" _I know I'm right_ ," she says, but it's broken up by the shrill noise of the warning bell ringing in the background. " _Hey, I've got to go, but make sure you answer Ned's texts, he's freaking out._ "

"Yeah, I'll get to them."

" _And Peter?_ "

"Hm?"

" _Thank you, again."_ Her voice falls a few octaves. " _I just, I can't . . . Thank you, Peter."_

She hangs up before he can reply.

•

Peter waits anxiously for May's arrival from work. Tony stays with him until around three, needing to head back to be with Pepper, but he departs with a hug and encouraging words: "She's not going to be mad, she's just worried, you did the right thing, call me if you need me."

He moves from the kitchen to his room to the living room and then back to his bedroom before locking himself in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

He isn't scared of May. He's scared that she won't approve of him being Spider-Man again. Because, if she doesn't approve, then there's no way that he'll go against her, even if it'll crush his soul and take away his sense of purpose.

Ultimately, he finds that he shouldn't have been so worried. As soon as May comes home she asks to hug Peter, and after they hug, she yells at him. Just a little.

"That was so dangerous! What if you froze up and you got hurt again? What if you weren't ready yet and something happened? I didn't know where you were, and even Tony didn't know where you were! You can't just do that, Peter!"

After getting that out of her system, she pulls him back in for a hug. Peter chuckles against her shoulder and asks, "So, are you okay with me being Spider-Man again?"

She presses a kiss to his head and smiles at him. "I'm not entirely ready, but if you are, then that's what matters." She ruffles his hair. "Just keep your tracker on."

•

Pepper's due in two weeks.

Everyone's a little antsy.

Every time May gets a call, she gasps—expecting it to be Tony saying that she's gone into labor early—but it never is.

Peter can tell that Tony's getting jittery with anticipation. Peter spends the weekend at the compound as usual, and while they work in the lab, Tony's knee always bounces or he's always tapping his pencil. It's always something.

When Friday alerts Tony that Pepper is requesting assistance, Tony nearly falls out of his seat. "Is it the baby?!"

" _No, but she requires assistance opening a jar of pickles and has requested Peter's help_."

So, yeah. Pepper is annoyed that Tony keeps hovering, and May is on edge, and Peter . . . Well, Peter's anxious, but what else is new?

Recently, Bruce has helped ween Peter off the sleeping pills. So far, he has been able to fall asleep naturally and has only had a few sparse nightmares. Something Peter didn't anticipate he'd miss were dreams in general, although he doesn't realize he missed them until he has one again.

But he still gets nightmares on the occasional off night. That night, Peter dreams of saving Alyssa from Steven again, but this time when he busts down the door, it's Beck. And the little girl has brown hair instead of blonde. Her face is different, Pepper's freckles speckling her cheeks, and she has Tony's brown eyes.

He barely makes it to the toilet before he throws up. His hands clench onto the toilet seat hard enough to slightly crack it.

The image of his nightmare gets stuck in his head and tries the method Jamie taught him— _hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium—_ but the need to get it out exceeds reciting some stupid elements he memorized in second grade.

Friday must have alerted Tony, because he only gets to bang his head against the wall once before he feels a hand cup his head to create a barrier.

"Hey, hey, Pete, look at me."

He obeys. His chest hurts and his hands are clenching and unclenching and his mind is loud, but he meets Tony's eyes.

"Good," Tony says, moving his hand from Peter's head before hovering it over his shoulder, silently asking if it was alright. Peter nods. Gently taking his shoulder, Tony says, "I thought we moved past this?"

"Needed to get it out of my head," Peter murmurs, rubbing his dry, tired eyes.

Tony settles against the wall of the bathtub as Peter slumps against the wall. It has to be sometime past midnight. Guilt sinks into his stomach. Pretty soon, Tony will be waking up all night every night from the baby, he needs to get as much sleep as he can; yet, here he is in Peter's bathroom.

He isn't crying and he is breathing. He's just . . . frazzled. Tony doesn't need to be here.

"I'm fine," Peter breathes, wiping his mouth while cringing slightly at the foul taste. "Seriously, just a bad dream, wasn't even that bad. You can go back to sleep."

Tony sighs and says, "Kid, you don't need to be alone. I would rather sit here with you and make sure you're okay then be in bed."

"But Morgan'll keep you up all night when she's here, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to, but I want to," Tony says, enunciating every word. His raises his brow. "You're my kid, too. You can keep me up some nights, it's okay."

Peter nods and looks away. He feels Tony's eyes on him.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

"No," Peter mutters, picking at his bloody cuticles. He really should stop messing with them. "But I always feel better after I do, so . . ."

Tony offers a smile. "Alright, well, I'm all ears. Lay it on me."

Peter does. He doesn't want to, especially since it's regarding his unborn daughter getting raped by his own rapist, but after he's done, his chest is looser.

Like he expects, Tony seems a little more than upset by the dream. Peter runs a hand through his messy hair and says, "I don't know why my brain likes to make up fucked-up scenarios. Sorry."

Tony's eyes flicker to Peter's. A half-assed smile quirks his lips. "For 'sorry' being banned from coming out of your mouth, you sure do say it a lot."

That elicits a soft chuckle from Peter. After the humor fades, he sighs and leans his head back against the wall. "I think I had that dream because I've been anxious about Morgan."

Tony scoffs. "You aren't the only one struggling with anxiety lately."

Peter smiles. "Yeah. I guess I just . . . I dunno, I want to make sure what happened to me doesn't happen to her. I know it probably won't, but statistics are higher for girls and after the whole thing with Alyssa I can't get it out of my head, you know?"

"Yeah, I get you," Tony says, nodding slowly. "I mean, I'm already scared about everything she's going to face. I don't want my little girl to have to feel heartbreak, or loss, or . . . heaven forbid she falls and scrapes her knee."

Peter laughs. "Don't worry, I'll catch her before she can fall."

"I'll be counting on it."

There's a moment of silence that passes between the two, both of them just thinking about the baby on the way, and then Peter smiles softly. "I'm excited too, though. It's not just anxiety and stress."

"Me too, bud," Tony agrees. He nudges Peter's shoulder, then checks his watch. "Well, the sun rises in a half hour. What do you say we go prepare a monster breakfast?"

"As long as you don't nearly catch the kitchen on fire again."

"That was one time, Parker, _one_ time."

•

For as much as Peter hates seeing Beck's face, he looks at the mugshot an awful lot. He imagines that he's in front of him _—_ separated by a set of thick bars _—_ and can just unload his frustrations and every last curse word in his vocabulary.

He's stronger now. It's only been a week since busting Steven Wescott and, after a few therapy sessions, he's back up on his feet. He's right as rain. He's _stronger_.

Peter wants Beck to know that he didn't break him.

He feels like he has already done so much good in the short amount of time he has returned to the streets of Queens. That definitely helps. People on the streets used to wave to him occasionally, but that didn't prepare him for the amount of people who cheer and call out to him now. He swung by a busy street, surveying the civilians for any trouble, and literally every single person on that street looked up when someone pointed up at him and called out, "Look, it's Spider-Man!"

He not going to lie, it feels really good.

When he spotted some middle school girls at a community basketball court huddled around a girl on the ground with blood, he swung over to make sure she wasn't dying. As soon as they saw him, their faces light up. The pain pinching the face of the girl with the skidded knees and hands effaced and she sprung right up, only limping a little, and exclaimed, "You're Spider-Man!"

Peter laughed. "Yeah, I am. Are you okay? I was swinging by when I saw that you were hurt."

She brushed it off. "Nah, I'm good, just a scrape." As if to prove her point, she does a little lunge.

As convincing as she was, Peter said, "Scrapes can get nasty and painful when they get infected; trust me, I have first-hand experience with that. I've got some bandaids with me, do you think I could borrow someone's water bottle to pour some water over it?"

That's how he wound up bandaging up a girl's knees and then got roped into taking a selfie with the small group. He threw up a piece sign since he couldn't make any facial expressions with the mask. The girls later posted it on twitter and it instantly went viral.

Now, there's a whole new hashtag trending: #WelcomeBackSpidey

It feels good.

So, fuck Beck.

Fuck everything he did to strip away every ounce of power and control Peter had for those two months he was held captive, and a few months after that, too. Fuck his rough hands, his calloused skin, his white teeth, his scratchy beard, and every part of him that dared to touch Peter. Fuck his love-bombing and false smiles and manipulative words and passive-aggressive responses. Fuck his lies. Fuck Beck and his heinous blue eyes that bore into Peter's as he stares at his mugshot.

Fuck. Beck.

"Karen, pull up the directions to the Vault."

•

Peter doesn't even make it past the border between New York and New Jersey before Tony's contact picture pops up on his mask lense. He doesn't have the choice to pick up or deny, it just patches through.

" _Peter_." Tony's voice is solid, firm.

"Hey, Mr. Stark," Peter says, not even out of breath as he swings further and further from Queens. He's only in Manhattan. "What's up?"

" _Why don't you tell me?_ " Tony says. Oh, yeah. He's busted. " _I got an alert that you left Queens_."

"I'm just patrolling."

" _In_ _Manhattan?_ "

"I'm looking for a lost dog. He might be in Hoboken by now, it's been a while."

Tony sighs. " _Peter_."

"Sorry, Mr. Stark, but I gotta focus, this dog really doesn't want to be found." He crosses the Hudson, finally entering Jersey. He's still got some more borders to cross before he's in Maryland, but that's one less border to cross, at least. "Can I call you back later?"

" _No, you're not going to call me back later because you're not going to hang up on me,"_ Tony replies with an edge to his voice. " _You're in New Jersey, I see_."

"Yeah, I said I was looking for a dog," Peter huffs. He swings too low to the street and gets honked at by a taxi. "Are you tracking me right now?"

" _Surprising, is it?_ "

Peter doesn't respond because _yes, it's surprising, he deactivated the tracker again before taking off._

" _How about we make a deal,_ " Tony suggests. " _You stop hacking into the suit and tell me the real reason you're leaving New York, and I might not fly out to you and grab you by the spandex to drag you back here."_

"That doesn't sound very fair."

" _Yeah, well_ ," Tony flippantly brushes it off. " _So, what're you actually doing so far from home?"_

Peter pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he contemplates on whether or not to stick to his lie. In a small voice, he says, "I'm looking for a lost d—"

 _"I swear to God, I'm going to lose my mind if you're hiding an injury or, or—I don't know, running away from home to join the circus or something. What's even outside of New York that you'd—?_ " Tony cuts off suddenly. Peter can imagine the realization dawn over him. Voice lowered, Tony says, " _Please tell me you aren't going to the Vault."_

Okay, the jig is up.

Peter dodged a building and swings up to land on the roof. Catching his breath, he ducks his head and says, "I'll be back in time to get an hour or two of sleep before school in the morning."

There's a shuffle of movement. " _Kid, you can't just break into one of the most secure prisons on the planet. What are you even going to do, kill him? That isn't you, no matter how angry you get or how much you hate him_."

Peter looks out to the horizon. The sun is getting low, but it's not low enough for the sky to be turning shades of pink and orange just yet. "I'm not going to kill him."

" _Then what in the world are you trying to achieve by going there?_ "

Peter's fists clench at his sides. "I want to talk to him."

". . . _Peter_."

"I'm serious."

" _I know, that's why I'm worried_ ," Tony snaps, then takes a breath. " _Jeez, kid. What do you want to talk to him for? Why do you even want to see him at all?_ "

"I have . . . questions."

" _About what? Why he took you?_ " Tony says. " _It's because he's a twisted bastard who wanted control_."

Peter scoffs. "I know that, Tony. I just . . . I also wanted to look him in the eyes and show him that he doesn't have control over me anymore." He kicks a rock off the gravel-covered roof. "Fuck him."

There's a pause. " _Have you noticed that you only call me 'Tony' when you're pissed off ?"_

"No, I don't."

" _Yes you do, but that's beside the point_ ," Tony waves it off. _"I see where you're coming from, Pete, I do. Just . . . Just come to the compound, and we'll work something out."_

"By work something out do you mean ground me while telling me how stupid I'm being?"

" _No, I mean we'll work something out_."

Peter glances over his shoulder at Manhattan across the bridge extended over the murky Hudson. Shifting his gaze south towards Maryland and then north towards New York, he sighs. "Okay. I'll be there in half an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy tell me what you think :)
> 
> by the way i'm close to finishing this story but i am going to start a series of unrelated fics with peter in different kidnapping scenarios, so i hope you guys check them out when i start posting them :)


	27. Liberation

Tony's sitting at the kitchen counter, a half glass of water in front of him, when Peter steps out of the elevator. His mask is in one hand, his other clenched into a fist at his side.

Pepper must be taking another nap in her and Tony's room. As much as Peter trusts her, he doesn't want her to have to worry about him while she's literally two weeks away from her due date. He doesn't want to worry Tony either, but he knows there's no way around this conversation.

Peter slips into the chair beside Tony's and sits so he faces him. He sets his mask on the counter. "I want to see him."

Tony wipes the condensation off his glass with his thumb, pursing his lips. "Why?"

"I told you why."

"I know, but . . . _why?_ " Tony shakes his head. "If I were you, I'd never want to see that man again, not after what he did."

Peter looks away. "Well, you're not me."

Tony regards Peter's posture and nods. "I'm not. I just want to understand."

That's fair. After everything Peter has drug Tony through, he deserves to know his reasoning, no matter how flawed or confusing it may be. And, well, Tony is basically his dad at this point. A year ago he didn't think their relationship would evolve beyond tired mentor and annoying mentee.

Yet, here they are, Tony more than willing to understand and listen to Peter before casting judgement. Not that he'd ever judge Peter for what he's feeling, especially after the year he's had.

"I don't completely understand, either," Peter says, fleetingly meeting Tony's eyes to make sure he's listening even though he knows that he is. "Just looking at his mugshot fills me with this . . . I don't know, this, like, urge to face him. It's like . . ." He frowns. "There was something about facing Steven that makes me want to face Beck. I don't know if that makes sense."

Tony nods but doesn't say anything.

Peter sighs. "I don't know. I also want to, to prove to him that he's not controlling me anymore, but I also want to prove it to myself." The more he speaks, the more he uncovers how he actually feels. "I want to prove to myself that he isn't holding me back anymore. I want to be able to talk to him, to look into his eyes again, and not be so . . . bothered by it."

"It's perfectly normal to be bothered by it," Tony argues softly. "No one expects you to be indifferent, I don't think that's something that'd help."

"I don't want to be indifferent," Peter clarifies, "just, just less affected, I think."

Tony takes a sip of his water and sets it down. After swallowing, he glances at Peter and says, "I honestly don't know if you're ready for that."

Peter straightens. "I can look at his mugshot."

"That's not the same thing as physically facing him," Tony counters.

Okay, yeah, there's a difference, but Peter used to not be able to even think about him without falling into a panic attack. He's looked at his mugshot multiple times, and he has faced off against a child rapist. It's time he faces his own.

"I brought it up to Jamie once," Peter says, and he's not lying. It was a short conversation and they didn't stay on the topic for longer than a few minutes, but they talked about it. "She doesn't think it'd help, but she also doesn't think it'd make it worse."

Tony considers this with a thoughtful gaze. "What do you think?"

"I think it'll help," he says, confident. "It'd provide some closure, maybe."

Like writing the final sentence in a chapter and moving onto the next. The new chapter wouldn't have Beck as a main character. He wouldn't be at the forefront, he would barely even be mentioned at all. Because, even though it feels like the last year has been a whole book focused on Beck and what he did, it was only a chapter, and chapters end. Peter has so many more chapters to write. He just . . . He just needs to end this one.

That doesn't mean he'll forget what happened, or _forgive_ him, or that he's completely 100% healed. It just means that he's moving on and starting a new chapter.

He doesn't know how to explain this to Tony, to express how vital facing Beck one last time is to ending this chapter, but before he can even try to, Tony says, "Alright."

"What?" Peter blinks. "Really?"

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "May won't like it, though. Hell, _I_ don't like it." He drops his hand to the counter and studies Peter. "But I want to help you in any way that I can."

"She doesn't have to know," Peter suggests. "If she knew, she'd never let me go."

"That doesn't sit right with me. Maybe we can hold off on this? Do it later? There's no rush."

But there is. Ending this chapter means moving on. He wants to be moved on so he can hold Morgan without seeing the girl from his nightmare the other night. He doesn't want to fear Beck harming her.

"I want to do it before the baby comes," Peter say. "I want to—I want to be good for her. To be sure in myself that I can be a good brother."

Tony smiles. "You don't have to worry about that. I know you're going to be the best brother to her regardless of whether you not you do this."

He doesn't understand. But he doesn't know how to make him understand. "Please."

Tony frowns, his eyes analyzing Peter's face, obviously deep in thought. When he sighs and looks away, Peter prepares himself to try to convince him, but then Tony says, "Fine."

And, well, Peter can't say he saw that coming.

"Get out of your suit and let's go," Tony says, although he doesn't sound too enthusiastic. "I'll make some calls and make some arrangements."

Peter can't find any words, so he just steps down from his seat and hugs Tony tight. Like always, Tony hugs him back.

"Thank you," Peter manages to say into his shoulder, then pulls back.

Tony pats his shoulder. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

"Probably not," Peter says, unable to stifle his smile.

•

After making sure that Happy was at the compound just in case Pepper would need anything, Tony and Peter head towards the Avengers landing strip where a private jet was waiting for them. No matter how much time Peter spends with Tony, he can't get over how fast he can make things happen.

It's Sunday night and Peter would be spending the night at the tower anyways, so it's not like May is going to be suspicious at all. He's going to tell her about this little meet-up eventually. Just not yet. As visibly uneasy as it's making Tony, he knows May wouldn't approve or understand. Tony doesn't understand either, but he seems to gauge how important this is to Peter.

On the way to Maryland, Tony sits across from Peter and explains how it's going to go.

Peter is going to sit down in a square room with a table, two chairs, and a large one-way glass on an adjacent wall to observe and listen to everything going on. Beck will sit across the table from Peter—out of reach—and will be handcuffed to the table. The Vault is guarded by some of the most elite soldiers, so two will be in the room at Beck's sides and two will be outside the door, just in case. They will have ten minutes. If he feels at any point that he is in danger, he can leave. If he ever feels uncomfortable, he can leave. If he just doesn't want to be there, he can leave.

Tony makes it clear that Peter will be in control the entire time. He also assures that the guards are under oath to never tell secrets any of the prisoners at the Vault say, so his identity as Spider-Man is safe if Beck ever decided to spill the secret or if he decides to during their meeting.

Like Peter imagined, the Vault is a dreary facility. He walks stiffly at Tony's side as guards usher them in and lead them to the room. Tony stays at the one-way glass with a guard and a director at the Vault while two guards lead Peter to the door that separates him from the man who took everything from him. No—the man who _tried_ to.

The door opens. He sees the figure handcuffed to the table but avoids looking at him as he makes his way to his chair. It isn't until the door closes and he sits down, taking a deep breath, that he looks up.

As soon as his honey brown eyes meet Beck's icy blue eyes, his stomach flips.

Peter's lips twitch, but he can't speak. His words die on his tongue and suddenly the two guards flanking his sides don't exist. It's just Peter and Beck.

Beck looks even worse than he did in his mugshot. He's in a pale blue jumpsuit. The golden brown locks of hair that he styled every morning is shaved to his scalp in a prickly buzz cut. His skin is pasty and hollowed out under his eyes and under his cheekbones that never stood out until now. A deep purple bruise ringing his left eye contrasts against the paleness of his face.

His lips curl. "Hello, darling. Miss me?"

Peter swallows dryly. He can . . . He can still breathe. He's not panicking or freaking out, he's actually calm.

Well, maybe not calm—his heart is racing as his hands are clenching the armrests of his chair—but he's okay.

"No." He mentally pats himself on the back for how firm his voice is.

Amusement flickers in Beck's gaze. "Really? Then why'd you want to see me?"

"I wanted to show you that you didn't break me," Peter says, eyes holding Beck's stare.

The older man makes a noise between a snort and a laugh. "You sure it wasn't for a quickie, just for old time's sake? I know how much you drooled over my cock."

Peter looks away. As embarrassing and crude as those words are, he knows they aren't true. Maybe they would have tripped him up a month or two ago, but now—now they hold no real value. "You know, for a while I thought you loved me. That that's why you kidnapped me and made up that elaborate lie."

Peter's eyes flicker to Beck. He carefully analyzes every line, every fleck in his skin. He remembers the small mole in the curve of his cheek. The longer he dissects his face, the more he realizes it was never really about _Peter_. It was about his own twisted, sick desires.

"But you were just a creep."

The sharp laugh that escapes Beck's lips pierce. Peter's eardrums. He schools his expression to remain unbothered.

"I did love you," Beck says, voice light from laughing. It dies down immediately and he says, "I loved fucking you."

Under the table, Peter's hands clench into tighter fists.

"You want to know what was so special about you, princess?" Beck taunts, sitting up. Peter can't hold back the flinch the movement elicits despite being handcuffed to the table. "At first, I thought Spider-Man was so annoying, always getting in the way of the natural order of New York. You thought you had some right to be playing God, deciding who was right and who was wrong, who deserved to be put behind bars. I had every intention to snap your little neck and dismember your body. But then . . ." Beck shakes his head, laughing under his breath. "Then I saw Spider-Man changing out of his suit in an alley. And I saw you. I saw your perfect, soft, untouched skin. I saw how young and innocent and naïve you were, and knew from that moment, I had to have you."

Peter leans forward, hissing, "Fuck you."

"Already did that, baby." Beck smiles sweetly. "Come on, don't tell me you didn't enjoy playing domestic husbands. You cleaned the house like a 50s housewife and obeyed me like I was a king."

"I was scared and confused," Peter bites back. "But guess what? I'm _not_ scared anymore, and I'm _not_ confused. I know what you did was disgusting and wrong, and I'm not going to live the rest of my life cowering in fear."

Beck runs his tongue along his teeth like a lion licking blood from its fangs. "Oh, darling, you truly are naïve, aren't you?"

Peter's glare hardens.

"It's cute, really, how foolish you're being," Beck continues in a sickly sweet tone. When his eyes find Peter's again, they flicker down to his lips before returning to his eyes. "I'll always be there. You'll never get rid of me, not really."

Peter opens his mouth, but Beck continues.

"I'll be in your subconscious. Your thoughts. I'm a worm stuck in your head and you can't do anything about it." He leans forward. Peter's lungs stop working and he just sits there, not breathing. "I'll be in your shower, your bed, your crushes, your dreams. Everything you do, I will be there."

Satisfied by Peter's silence, Beck smirks and leans back in his chair.

But then Peter snorts.

The amusement and smugness on Beck's face falters and his brow pulls forward.

"I think you're overestimating yourself," Peter says, crossing his arms and leaning back. "I may not forget about you, but you aren't plaguing my thoughts every day. One day, I'll hardly even remember you." He tilts his head, eyes searching Beck's. "It takes seven years for all your skin to replace itself. In seven years, I'll have a body that you never touched."

Beck scoffs, his handcuffs jingling. "That's bullshit."

"No, you're bullshit," Peter states matter-of-factly. "If you even think for one moment that my life will always revolve around you, then you're dense as fuck." His eyes flicker to the guards on either side of Beck. "Okay, I'm done."

He stands. The chair scrapes against the gray floor.

Beck straightens. "Listen here, you whore, you better watch your back. I'm not fucking done with you—"

The door shuts behind him before Beck can finish his threat.

Not a second later, Tony's in front of him, holding his hands out cautiously as he tries to catch Peter's eyes.

Peter looks up at him. Offers a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes, then steps into his arms.

Tony's strong arms hold him close to his chest. Face in Tony's shoulder, Peter whispers, "Thank you."

He responds by holding his kid tighter. The familiar scent of motor oil invades his nostrils, and he smiles. His hands might be shaking and his heart might be beating out of rhythm, but he smiles. 

When Peter pulls back, Tony shoots a glare at the door. His fury is a stark difference from the relief Peter feels. Between his teeth, he fumes, "I've never wanted to kill a man more in my life."

Peter throws a glance over his shoulder at the door as well, imagining the frustration pinching Beck's face. He turns back to Tony. "He isn't worth it."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	28. Exhale

Peter falls asleep on the plane ride back to the compound. He is—understandably—exhausted. Apparently private jets just have blankets lying around, so when he curls up in his seat and closes his eyes, he feels a blanket being draped over him. Knowing it's just Tony, Peter smiles softly and lets his exhaustion from the day win over his consciousness.

It's around midnight when Tony gently awakens him by touching his shoulder. Peter jolts a little at the contact, but after blinking and coming back to reality, he immediately calms and laughs at Tony's joke about being too old to carry him inside.

Peter heads straight to bed. He suspects Tony does, too, because he hasn't been staying up too late ever since Pepper started staying over a while ago.

It takes a while, but after lying under his covers in his comfiest pajama pants—the pink Hello Kitty ones of course—and an old t-shirt, his mind starts to drift again.

Until he's yanked awake by the distant sound of something breaking.

Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, Peter asks in a voice slightly hoarse from sleep, "Friday? What was that noise?"

_"Boss has thrown an old repulsor prototype_."

Peter straightens. "What?" Throwing the covers off of him, he stands and makes his way to the hall. "Is he in the lab?"

" _Yes. Should I alert Boss of your arrival?"_

"No, just—" Peter's bare feet slap against the cool floor as he rushes towards the lab. "Is he okay?"

" _He has no physical injuries, although his heart rate does seem to be quite high_."

"Shit," Peter curses under his breath, picking up the speed. The automatic doors whoosh open as he runs in.

The first thing he sees is a broken and dented metal repulsor, and when he turns, he makes finds Tony.

The man is hunched over a desk, his head bowed low as he leans against his palms pressing against the table top. His eyes are squeezes shut and Peter can hear his heart beating erratically against his chest.

Glancing back at the broken prototype on the floor, Peter says, "Tony?"

Tony's breathes are labored. Keeping his eyes closed, he says, "I'm good, kid. Just—Just give me a minute. Go back to bed."

Peter's brow furrows in concern and he steps closer. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy. Go back to your room."

Peter's eyes scan the room. There's shards of white mug fragments and a mess of spilled dark coffee on the floor.

Eyes shifting back to Tony, Peter makes a decision and plops down on the stool next to him. "I'm not tired."

"You were nodding off not even a full hour ago," Tony says, finally looking at Peter beside him. When they make eye-contact, Peter notices the pain and redness in his eyes. Tony looks away. "And you've got school in the morning, so you can't stay up."

"I heard you break something," Peter accuses, worried. "What's wrong?"

Tony presses his lips in a straight line, then bows his head again and shakes it. "Gosh, kid. I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?"

"Continue acting so . . . _you_ all the time," Tony clarifies, although it doesn't really clarify much. He turns around so he can lean his back against the desk and crosses his arms across his chest.

Peter slowly swings his feet against the stool. "I'm not following."

"I'm going to be completely honest," Tony says, meeting Peter's confused gaze. "Today messed me up. Hearing how that bastard talked to you, how he talked about you, even seeing him _look_ at you—that messed me up."

"Yeah," Peter exhales, picking at his nails. "He said some messed-up things, but . . . I think he was just pissed that I wasn't scared of him anymore."

Tony's brow scrunches. "You weren't scared at all?"

"Not really," Peter admits with a shrug. "I mean, my heart was racing and I didn't like how he looked at me, but I knew he couldn't do anything with you watching."

Tony's lip quirks. "You can't tell me that I was more reassuring than the armed guards?"

Unlike Tony's joking tone, Peter's is sincere as he confesses, "I knew you wouldn't let Beck do anything to me again. As long as you were there, I was safe."

Tony doesn't say anything, just stares back at Peter with a look he can't discern. They stay like that, Peter looking at Tony with his complete trust, until Tony leans off of the desk and murmurs with his arms extended, "Come here, kid."

He slips off the stool to be enveloped by Tony's arms for the second time that night. With Tony rocking him slightly, one hand pressing his head to his chest and the other on his back, Peter smiles.

•

"Dude, Mr. Thompson gave me a B on that paper," Ned complains. The three of them—Ned, Peter, and Michelle—are sitting at their usual lunch table while the chaos of the cafeteria goes on around them.

Michelle, with an open book in front of her, pops a grape in her mouth. "Why?"

"Yeah," Peter chimes in. "You always get A's on all your papers."

Ned shakes his head with a defeated sigh. "I don't know, I think Mr. Thompson's got it out for me. He counted points off for using an en-dash instead of an em-dash. I swear he gave Jordan extra points for using an Oxford comma."

"As he should," Michelle says.

Ned sputters, "What's so special about an Oxford comma?"

Peter exchanges a look with Michelle and scoffs, "Uh, what isn't special about an Oxford comma?"

Ned deflates and stabs his chicken with his fork. "It's just a stupid comma."

"Um, _excuse_ me?" Michelle blinks, and Peter tunes out of the conversation as a different voice from across the cafeteria catches his attention.

Turning, his eyes find Flash moving from table to table. He's holding a box with an open lid, smiling and asking for donations for something. Peter snorts. Flash is . . . rich. He's _rich_ , and he's not known for his good heart, so why is he asking for donations? He's literally wearing three-hundred dollar sneakers and a Rolex he's seen in Tony's watch collection, his hair slicked back neatly.

_Why is Flash asking for donations?_

Flash makes eye-contact with Peter and grins. Making his way to his table, Flash says, "Hey, losers, any of you want to fork up some money for a good cause?" His eyes sweep over Michelle and Ned, then flash to Peter. "Don't worry, dickwad, I'm not asking you. I know you're poor."

Peter, unbothered by the dig, doesn't even humor him and continues enjoying his apple. Michelle fixes Flash with an inquisitive gaze and asks, "Are you actually going to donate the money, or did daddy cut off your allowance and you need to find a way to fund some new shoes?"

Flash scoffs. "Um, no. You seriously think so lowly of me?" He actually looks offended. "Yes, I'm actually donating the money. It's going to FEAST, this homeless shelter nearby. They've been short recently, so I thought I'd help out."

The three stare at him, silent.

He blinks. "What?"

"No offense," Ned starts, brow furrowed, "but you're, like, the last person I'd expect to be asking for donations for a homeless shelter."

Flash shrugs. "What can I say, Spider-Man's inspired me to do something good for others for once. So, money?" He holds the box out and shakes it.

Michelle pops another grape into her mouth and turns back to her book. "Don't have any money on me."

"Me neither," Ned says, "but I'll catch you later, I have some in my locker."

"Same, I—" Peter starts to say, but Flash cuts him off.

"That's okay, you probably need the money more," the boy says in a mocking tone, lips upturned smugly, then turns and moves on to the next table.

Under her breath, Michelle says, "Dick."

"At least he's doing something good," Peter offers.

Ned snorts. "Yeah, because you inspired him."

Peter cracks a smile. "Huh. Yeah." Ironic.

Flash asks around the rest of the cafeteria for donations until the lunch hour ends and everyone files into the halls to get to class. Peter settles into English with no issue, sort-of dreading having to read a boring article about some dead author and writing a paragraph about it, but there could be worse things. He could be in the cabin.

_Okay, nope,_ he automatically tells himself, blinking and focusing in on the boring article. _We’re not doing that. We don’t need to think about what-if scenarios._

That’s something Jamie engrained in his brain. Apparently Peter gets caught up thinking about _What if Beck were here?_ or _What if I wasn’t rescued?_ or _What if Beck broke out of jail?_ The scenarios are—first of all, not reality—a cause of unnecessary anxiety. There’s no need to focus on what could have happened, because it didn’t.

He’s safe.

Everything’s actually okay.

After English the day floats by, and then Decathlon practice flies by. Before he knows it, he’s waiting on a bench near the front doors, his backpack on the floor propped against the legs of the bench, for Tony to come pick him up for the weekend. Or Happy, depending on how busy Tony is.

Peter looks up from scrolling mindlessly on his phone when Michelle sits next to him. He offers a small smile that is uniquely his own kind of awkward. Michelle just nods before pulling out a book.

Peter goes back to scrolling, but a familiar voice perks his ears and he looks up just as AJ and his girlfriend walk by.

And, without fail, Peter feels that intangible tug. It isn’t in his gut, or his chest, it’s just . . . his whole body. Suddenly jittery, Peter shakes his head and looks back down at his phone.

“You’re not going back to that, right?”

Peter’s eyes dart to Michelle next to him. Her book is closed on her lap, her eyes trained on Peter.

He clenches his hands into fists in an attempt to rid himself of the energy building up under his skin. “No, I’m not.” When Michelle gives his hands a pointed look, he says, “I just get . . . cravings? Sometimes?” He lets out a nervous laugh. “Which doesn’t make sense ‘cuz I was, like, barely even addicted for a short amount of time.”

“You’re allowed to feel the things you feel,” Michelle says. She turns back to her book.

Tilting his head, Peter finds his gaze lingering on her side profile, the way her soft baby hairs curl around her ears and how her chin juts out slightly as she reads.

He imagines tucking the hair that falls in front of her face behind her ear. It’d be soft, like how her hands are always soft.

He doesn’t break the imaginary physical barrier between them and says, “I feel happy when I’m with you.”

Michelle stills, then turns her head. Peter holds his breath as her dark eyes flicker between his. After a few seconds of silence, she says, “Same,” and then looks back down at her book.

The awkward smile on Peter’s lips grows into a full-on grin as he looks away.

  
  
  


•

Tuesday night is, by default, Taco Tuesday. Which is fine by Peter. He loves Mexican food, tacos being somewhere at the top of the list under enchiladas but above tamales.

When May bites into her hard taco shell, it crunches and falls apart, and she frowns. “I think it’s stale.”

Peter laughs. “My soft taco is delicious.”

“Is it, now?” May mocks, rolling her eyes and smiling as she gets up from the dinner table to pick up the box on the counter. She makes a noise of discovery. “They’re expired.”

“How long?”

“. . . Two years.” Peter laughs, setting his taco down, and May indignantly puts her hands on her hips and says, “Hey, it’s been a while since we’ve had a Taco Tuesday, alright?”

After removing the filling of her taco into a new, soft shell, May and Peter eat in a comfortable silence. The TV plays in the background, something about fast food chains and untrustworthy calorie counts on labels.

Peter looks across the table at his aunt and feels his stomach fill with guilt. It’s not heavy, but it’s there.

Clearing his throat, Peter says, “Hey, Aunt May?”

She hums.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he starts, and immediately May’s eyes dart to his, worry and apprehension filling her gaze. He’s quick to assure, “It’s nothing bad, don’t worry, I’m okay. It’s not—it’s nothing to worry about. I’m just worried you’ll get mad.”

May’s brow furrows. “I won’t get mad at you.”

Releasing a breathy, humorless laugh, Peter admits, “I wasn’t worried about that, I was worried about you getting mad at Mr. Stark.”

Her eyes harden slightly as suspicion creeps in. “Why? What’d he do?”

“Well, it was a joint effort,” Peter says, “but it was completely my idea and he just wanted to help, so if you do get mad, don’t get mad at—“

“Peter,” May cuts him off, losing her patience. “Just tell me.”

He lets out a breath. “Right. Sorry. Um . . . So, about a week ago, I went to Maryland—“

Her eyes widen and she tilts her head. “What? When?”

“I was with Tony,” Peter clarifies. “We took a private jet to the Vault. Do you . . . Do you know what that is?”

She shakes her head.

“It’s one of the world’s most secure prisons,” Peter says, sitting back in his chair. “That’s where, um, Beck is being held.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“ _What?_ ”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Peter rushes out. “I know it was kinda stupid, but I just—I _had_ to see him.”

“Peter—“

“To prove to him, and myself, that he doesn’t have a hold on me anymore, and I promise we were smart about it. Tony was watching and listening the whole time, and there were these giant guards in the room and Beck was handcuffed and everything, and nothing bad happened.” Peter looks away. “Sorry we went behind your back. I just—I knew you wouldn’t let me go. But I had to.”

May’s silent for a moment. She releases a heavy breath and sits back, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Did it help at all?”

He nods. His throat is too tight to speak.

“Okay.” She looks up at Peter, studying him. “Okay. I’m not happy you and Tony teamed up and went behind my back, but I’m glad you’re being honest about it.”

Peter nods again. Something wet hits his cheek, and he flinches slightly before realizing it’s a tear. His tear. 

Concern washes over May’s face. “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?”

Suddenly choking back an onslaught of tears, Peter wipes his face and weakly lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know . . . It just really helped, I think, seeing Beck. I’m just—I’m just so happy that I’m getting better and moving on, you know?”

He looks up with glossy eyes. May’s concern disappears from her features when she realizes they’re not sad tears, they’re tears of _joy_.

Exhaling deeply, Peter admits, “I feel like I can finally breathe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just saw some stills for the next spider-man movie and oooohhhh boy i am PUMPED


	29. Beginning

"People really need to stop being so distracted when they drive," Peter says, shifting the bag of groceries in his arms.

The old lady walking next to him—Marjorie—nods. Her dangly turquoise earrings jangle at the motion. "Oh yes, it's all those phones. Texting, tweeting, or whatever you kids do. Nearly met the Lord today." She pulls a face. "Don't get me wrong, I can't wait 'til I get to heaven and stop having these backaches, but I have a zoomba class with my girls on Thursday and I can't miss it."

Peter—well, _Spider-Man_ —is walking Marjorie home from the supermarket after she almost got hit by a car at a crosswalk. Thankfully he was able to swoop in and catch the car barreling towards the red light before any damage other than his scraped-up hands could be done. After making sure that the driver was okay and that Marjorie wasn't going to have a heart attack, Peter offered to carry her groceries for her. Which, of course, she agreed to. Peter's beginning to think she just wanted some company on her journey home.

Marjorie tells endearing stories of her grandchildren and some pretty crazy stories of her own when she was younger and didn't have a hunch-back. Her wit and sense of humor make the walk back to her quaint home pass by in a blur.

Soon, they approach the front of the house and Marjorie invites Peter inside for some cookies and tea after he hands over the groceries.

Before he can reply, his phone in his suit pocket buzzes. He flashes a smile to Marjorie, who can't even see the expression, and says, "Sorry, I need to take this. Have a good day, and tell your girls I said hi!"

Marjorie thanks him again, then closes the door after making him promise to come by for cookies and tea sometime when he's not busy fighting crime. He turns away from the house and pulls his phone out.

His heart jumps to his throat when he sees Tony's caller ID.

"Hey, what's—"

" _Get to the hospital on Madison Avenue,_ " Tony rushes out without a greeting. " _Happy's driving May over now, and I'm taking Pepper._ "

Peter's frozen in place. Brian short-circuiting, he utters, "Morgan?"

" _The little girl's coming early,_ " Tony confirms, out of breath.

"Holy shit," Peter says, then turns around with a hand clutching his masked head. "Holy—Okay, right, yeah, I'm on my way."

" _Come as Peter, not webby_."

"Yeah, yeah, got it."

After the call ends, Peter stands there for a few moments, then realizes with a jolt that _holy shit holy shit the baby's coming I need to go._

He barely wastes time in aiming before shooting a web at a tall building and propelling himself into the air. His hands are shaking and his chest is tight, but there's a face-splitting grin under his mask as he barrels towards the hospital.

"Excuse me, sorry!" he calls out, nearly swinging right into a flock of birds. They squawk and scramble to flutter away.

His jerky movements carry him around buildings and over rooftops. His feet land on the ledge of a roof before he bends his knees and pushes himself up, free-falling for a few seconds before shooting another web.

He doesn't really notice his sore, over-worked muscles or his poor lungs trying to catch a breath. The only thing on his mind is _MORGAN SHE'S COMING HOLY SHIT I NEED TO GET TO THE HOSPITAL NOW._

"Hey, Spider-Man!" a high voice calls out, and Peter spots someone waving their arms over their head out of the corner of his eye.

Peter looks between the direction of the hospital and the kid before huffing and redirecting his swing to land on the sidewalk.

The kid, a little boy no older than ten, looks up at Spider-Man in complete awe. "Woah, you're so cool!"

Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, Peter looks over his shoulder. "Yeah, thanks. Whatcha need, bud? Lost?"

The awe on his face falters as his cheeks flush red. "Um, yeah. I was just with my dad, but I stopped to pet this dog, and when I looked up he was . . ."

At the mixture of fear and embarrassment on the kid's face, Peter kneels in front of him to get more eye-level. "Hey, it's okay, it happens sometimes. What's your name?"

"Michael."

"Well, Michael," Peter says, "do you know your dad's phone number?"

He shakes his head, pauses, then says, "Five, seven, three—"

"Woah, hold on," Peter cuts him off and whips his phone out. "Okay, what was it?"

Michael recites the number, and Peter puts the call on speaker when someone picks up.

" _Hello?"_

Peter looks up at Michael as the boy's eyes light up and he exclaims, "Dad!"

" _Mikey? Oh, thank God. Where are you at, buddy? Whose phone is this?_ "

"Spider-Man found me!" Michael says, not really answering his father's question, so Peter enters the conversation.

"Hi, sir. It's, uh, Spider-Man. Michael waved me down and gave me your number." Looking up to scan their surroundings, he adds, "We're in Middle Village, by 69th street."

" _I'm just a block over, I'll be there as soon as I can_."

"I'll wait here with Michael. You should find us pretty easily, I mean, with the whole bright red and blue suit." He gestures to himself, then remembers the man can't see him, and clears his throat. "Okay, well, I'll keep an eye on him until you get here."

" _Thank you so much, I'm almost there_."

When they hang up, Peter slips his phone back into his suit pocket as he stands. "So, where's that dog you stopped to pet?"

Michael shrugs. "I dunno, I think he left. It was this realllyyyyy fluffy puppy with tiny little paws."

"Aw, cute," Peter muses, internally disappointed he didn't get to pet the dog. "Do you have a dog?"

Michael tilts his head. "Well, Dad says dogs smell, but I always _wanted_ a dog."

"Me too," Peter agrees, crossing his arms and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "I always wanted one of those dogs with the big floppy ears and long noses."

"My grandma had one of those," Michael says. "His name is Lucky, but he's really lucky because he got hit by a car."

Peter frowns. "Oh. Is he okay?"

"No, he died."

 _Okaaaay._ Peter squints, trying to come up with a way to change the subject to something less morbid, but then Michael's eyes shift behind Peter and light up.

"Dad!" he cheers, running past Peter.

Turning, Peter watches as Michael jumps into a man's arms, the man clasping a hand on the back of his head while his other arm wraps securely around his waist.

"Jeez, Mikey, you're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days," the man breathes into his son's hair. Looking up, his eyes meet Peter's. Well, sort of. They meet his mask's eyes.

The man stands but keeps a hand on Michael's shoulder as he addresses Peter. "Thank you so much for staying with him, I can't—I can't thank you enough, his mother would have killed me if I lost him."

Peter waves it off. "It was no problem, it's what I do." Yeah, he was on his way to the hospital to be there for his little sister's birth, but he does have responsibilities as Spider-Man. Turning his attention to Michael, Peter says, "I know puppies are super cute, but next time you want to stop and pet one, make sure your dad knows, that way you don't get lost and he gets to pet it, too."

Michael laughs. "Got it!"

"Good." Peter ruffles his hair and backs up. "Alright, I've got places to be. Have a good one."

"Thank you, you too," the father says before guiding Michael down the street.

Without another word, Peter returns to the original mission: get to the hospital.

He only makes it two more blocks before he's stopped, yet again, by an alarm. He bites back a curse and perches up on a streetlamp to assess what's going on.

A bank robbery.

Of course.

Three figures—two male, one female—all dressed in black with different colored masks run out of the bank with cases of what Peter assumes is money. Rolling his eyes, he swings his way over.

They're climbing into their getaway van when Peter lands on the front of the vehicle, scaring the shit out of the criminal in the driver's seat. She shrieks and dives for a gun, but when she straightens to point it at the windshield, Peter's already at the window to her left and grabs the gun with a web, yanking it from her grip with a "yoink" under his breath.

The guy in the passenger seat pulls out his own firearm and shoots it at Peter. His aim is shit and would have struck the woman in the driver's seat if Peter hadn't grabbed her and pushed her back.

A sharp sting just above his elbow elicits a sharp intake of air.

"Careful with that thing, bro," Peter quips as he webs that guy's gun and throws it behind him. "Don't you know that almost 40,000 people die each year from gun violence?"

"Shut the fuck up," the woman snaps, and Peter shoots a web that keeps her mouth shut.

"No thanks." He webs her to the seat, then jumps onto the roof of the van to slide across the top and land on the other side on the road. The man goes to punch him, but Peter dodges it and webs him to the side of the van. _Two down, one to go_. "Hey, where'd your other friend go?"

"AHHH!"

Peter spins, eyes wide as the third robber pounces while brandishing a knife. With a simple side-step, Peter is able to avoid being slashed open and webs him beside the other guy.

Turning his arm over to examine the pain in his arm, he sighs in relief. Just a graze. There's not even that much blood.

Spotting the suitcase of money on the ground, Peter swipes it up and says, "I'll take that, thank you." When he straightens, he notices the crowd of people watching with their phones out. He gives them an awkward wave. "Uh, hey guys. Might want to back up a bit for the cops."

As if on cue, siren-blaring cars pull up and park haphazardly by the black van. Peter greets an officer and politely hands over the suitcase of money.

After giving a brief statement and a pat on the back from an officer, Peter is finally able to continue on his way to the hospital.

He makes it after roughly an hour and a half of swinging. Like Tony suggested, Peter gets dressed back into his civilian clothes before walking in. No longer trusting alleys, Peter stops by a closed coffee shop where he sneaks into the back and changes in a bathroom before returning to the street to rush into the hospital.

Right away, he spots May, Happy, and Rhodey sitting in the waiting room. Rhodey looks up, May and Happy distracted by a conversation, and he frowns.

"What happened to you?"

May and Happy look over, and May's eyes widen and she jumps to her feet.

"Hey guys," he greets, slightly out of breath. "Sorry it took me so long, how's— _ow!_ "

"Sorry, sorry," May fusses, taking her hands away from his bloody arm. "What happened? Happy, there's a roll of bandages in my purse."

Honestly, Peter forgot about the graze. He was so focused on making it before Pepper had the baby that it had completely slipped his mind.

"It's just a graze, it's already starting to heal—"

"A graze? Like, from a _bullet_?" May hisses, thankfully in a whisper so they don't attract the attention of the nurses and doctors.

Happy joins May at his side and hands her the roll of bandages. Shaking her head, she pulls Peter's sleeve up a little to wrap the wound. "I don't know why I assumed you'd get here in one piece."

"Because I'm responsible?" Peter offers, testing his luck.

May sends him a glare, but it softens and then she asks, "Can I hug you?"

"Yeah, of course." He opens his arms. May fits right into them, wrapping him up and holding him close.

"I hope you know I'm getting gray hairs," May says, her chin over his shoulder, "and I'm blaming you."

Peter snorts. "Tony says that."

"It's true."

They pull back when the double doors open. A doctor in scrubs steps out. Immediately, Peter's heart pauses in its beat. Did something go wrong? Is Morgan okay? Is Pepper okay?

The doctor grins. "Six pounds, nine ounces of one healthy baby girl."

Peter's lungs deflate with relief as a grin overtakes his face.

"The Starks have requested to let you lot in to visit," the doctor adds. "If you'll follow me."

The four of them hurry after the doctor and file into the room he leads them to. Peter peers around May as he steps inside, and stops in his tracks at the sight of Tony cradling a tiny, fussy baby swaddled in a sage green blanket. Pepper's smiling from where she lies in the hospital bed, dried sweat on her forehead and her cheeks rosy.

Happy nudges Peter forward and he takes more steps inside, eyeing the tiny human in Tony's arms. He's staring down at her like she's the sun. Little crows feet of joy crinkle beside his eyes as he bounces the baby.

Tony looks up. His eyes find Peter, and as May makes a bee-line to Pepper, Tony nods him over.

"Come here, Pete. Meet your sister."

When he doesn't move at first, Happy nudges him for the second time that day. Peter finally gets his feet to move and tentatively steps up to Tony's side. He expects to just look over his shoulder at her, but then Tony's handing her over and suddenly Peter is holding the most fragile and precious thing he has ever held in his entire life.

Morgan's so _tiny_. Her nose is plump and rounded, like Tony's, and her eyes are huge. Her ears are narrow, like Pepper's, and she has a whole head of dark hair. He didn't think babies could grow that much hair so early.

He blinks down at her as she blinks up at him. Once she's settled in his arms, her fussiness tones down and she just watches his face.

Her skin looks softer than anything he's seen before. It's splotchy, but so soft and perfect. Peter hushes her when she makes a little whine and runs a thumb over the hair at her temple. She smiles at the contact and closes her eyes.

"Hey, Morgan," Peter whispers, tilting his head fondly.

There's a gentle tap on his right arm. Peter reluctantly tears his gaze from Morgan to look at Tony beside him.

The man nods to his injured arm. "What's with the bandages?"

"I'm fine, it's nothing serious." He can't even feel the pain with the bundle of innocence and pure joy in his arms. Smiling softly, he looks back down at Morgan. His voice is merely a whisper as he says, "She's perfect."

"Yeah," Tony breathes, wrapping an arm around his son and looking down at his daughter in his arms, "she is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda short buuutttttt whatever, i liked it, so ... *shrug*
> 
> also 
> 
> ONE CHAPTER LEFT BABYYYY


	30. Ending

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon—blue skies, sparse white, fluffy clouds that resemble stretched cotton, and a relatively warm day for an early March day in New York. The brisk air cuts through his suit and soothes his slightly sweaty skin as he swings through the city towards the quaint, yet modern, house Tony and Pepper built two years ago. It's a bit of a swing—it is in the country side, after all—but Peter finds himself enjoying the journey as he flips and glides through the blue sky. Overall, not a bad day for Morgan's fourth birthday party.

He's supposed to arrive in an hour. He's got the cake under one arm while he uses his free hand to shoot webs and propel himself towards the outskirts of the city in the direction of the Stark house. It's a bit inconvenient how far their house is, but he can't complain. His apartment is all the way in Cambridge near MIT's campus. So, really, Peter's place is out of the way, not the Stark's. He's just glad that May still lives in Queens so that he can patrol when he comes over most weekends.

Peter just spent last weekend at May's apartment with her so he normally wouldn't come back until at least next week, but he couldn't just not go to Morgan's birthday party. First of all, he'd deeply regret not showing up because Morgan's, like, his favorite person ever. Secondly, Morgan would probably—definitely—subject him to the silent treatment if he didn't show.

While in the city Peter had to visit Ned, of course, who's attending NYU instead of MIT like Michelle and Peter. As much as Peter wishes he didn't spend so much time away from his childhood best friend, he has to admit that he likes just having the apartment to himself and Michelle. Plus, he FaceTimes Ned almost every other day, so it's not like they're drifting apart or anything.

So that brings us back to where Peter is right now: in his Spider-Man suit with a _Jurassic Park_ cake—Morgan's favorite movies ever—tucked under one arm as he swings from Ned's apartment towards the Stark residence for his little sister's fifth birthday.

Just as Peter's rounding around a building, a loud _boom!_ disrupts the peacefulness of the beautiful afternoon. He redirects his swing and lands atop of a building to peer over the city to evaluate the cause.

A few blocks over, a small cloud of dark smoke billows into the air. Peter carefully placed the cake box onto the roof before diving off the edge and making his way over.

"Please don't be a bad guy," he mutters, scanning the area as he nears. "Please just be an accident or something, I don't have time to fight any bad guys."

Amidst the smoke rises a figure. At first it looks human, but then eight separate mechanical tentacles rise from its back.

Peter sighs and pulls his phone out of his suit pocket, checking the time. As he slips it back, he murmurs, "You've got ten minutes to incapacitate this bad guy, Peter. No problem."

It is, in fact, a problem.

As soon as he dives in and attempts to web this octopus scientist guy down, he proves to be a bigger pain in the ass than he expected. The mechanical tentacles must be made of a strong metal, and the force in them is a force to be reckoned with. One rams into Peter's stomach and sends him flying through a wall of a brick building.

Peeling himself from the ground with a hand cradling his abdomen, Peter huffs out a painful breath and wheezes, "Oh yeah, my insides are scrambled for sure."

Another tentacle whips towards him. Thankfully, his spider-sense alerts him and he lunges out of the way, free-falling out of the building before catching himself on a web and propelling himself towards the doctor octopus guy feet-first, knees locked. He lands a powerful kick to the guy's jaw, but then a tentacle clasps onto his arm and slams him against the ground.

"Pesky bug," the guy grinds out. "You have nothing against me."

Being pressed against the ground on his stomach with his face smushed against the ground, Peter says something, but it comes out muffled and a grumble of words.

The villain frowns. "What?"

Peter lifts his head. "I said, spiders are arachnids, dumbass, so if you're gonna insult me then—AGH!" He gets cut off by Doctor Octopus flinging him into yet another building.

Head feeling like a shaken can of spray paint, Peter pulls himself back up. When the world stops tilting under his feet, his eyes go wide at the sight of the cake he left start to tilt off the roof and plummet to the ground. Jumping out and swiping it mid-air, he pulls it back to a safer spot away from the edge and lets out a relieved sigh.

He's about to jump back into battle, but then his phone in his suit pocket buzzes.

"Karen," he says, out of breath, "transfer my phone call to the mask, please."

The AI connects the call without a word.

When Tony's picture pops up in the bottom corner of the lense, Peter winces. "Heyyy, Tony."

" _Hey Pete, just checking in to make sure you're on your way over with the cake_ ," Tony says. " _Oh, also, Morgan keeps pestering me about when you're going to get here, so that better be soon."_

Peter looks out at the mess of Doc Ock among the rubble of the exploded science lab and cringes. "Uh . . ."

" _Please tell me you've at least left the city._ "

"Actually, I got caught up," Peter says, and jumps back into action when he notices a civilian stuck in a car that's trapped by rubble. He lands beside the car and throws the large slab of concrete off the roof, then pries the door open to assist the man out.

" _Peter_."

"Hm?" He hums, distracted by craning his neck to locate the villain.

" _What's going on?_ "

"Oh, nothing," Peter assures, swinging up to Doc Ock and grabbing ahold of a tentacle about to grab a screaming civilian with one of his webs, tugging back with all his force. The mad scientist lets out a furious roar and spins on him. "I'm just dealing with a little side crime. I'll be back en route soon."

" _Uh huh._ "

Peter dodges tentacle after tentacle and webs them together with web grenades. As he moves, he frowns, and asserts, "I'm not gonna be late to my own sister's birthday party."

" _You tend to get carried away when you're Spider-Manning._ "

"I'm gonna make it," Peter repeats, then lets out a small squeal as he narrowly dodges car being thrown at him. "Okay, I'll be there soon. Tell Morgan her cake is on its way."

" _It better be intact when it gets here. If it isn't, you're dealing with the tantrum."_

"Don't worry about it, I've got everything handled." He jumps over a slab of concrete thrown his way and kicks off of it, landing a swift kick to Doc Ock's chest and flattening him to the pavement. "See you in an hour."

Once they hang up, Peter applies a healthy amount of webs to stick Doc Ock to the ground. It looks like a pile of white silly string, but he's down for good.

Normally Peter would stick around for the cops, but he's got somewhere to be, so he doesn't waste another second before swinging up to the rooftop where he left the cake, grabbing it, and swinging off towards the party.

Peter walks inside the house with his hair slightly matted from the mask and his muscles feeling like jelly. He's in one piece, though, and more importantly, the cake is in one piece. Also, he's only five minutes late.

Like he expected, the house is decked out with multi-colored balloons and decorations. A small crowd of people fill the space—Pepper, Tony, Rhodey, Bruce, May, Happy, and some of Morgan's friends from school with their parents. He doesn't spot Morgan right away, though.

Pepper's eyes narrow-in in Peter as he shuts the door behind him. She grins and makes her way over, setting a glass of a pink beverage—strawberry lemonade probably, Morgan's favorite drink—on the counter as she passes it.

"Peter!" she exclaims, opening her arms for a hug but letting him step into her embrace. He holds the box out so it doesn't drop and smiles as he hugs her back with his free arm.

"Hey, Pepper. Sorry I'm kinda late."

"Don't worry about it, Tony mentioned something about getting sidetracked." Her eyes dance over a spot on his cheekbone where he remembers getting punched. It's most likely bruised by now.

Happy approaches the two. "Fashionably late?"

"Like always," Peter says with a smile.

Happy rolls his eyes fondly. "You're just like Tony. Hey, I'll take the cake off your hands."

Peter hands it over. "Sure, thanks." He glances around the noisy room. "Hey, where's—"

"PETEY!"

A small girl with long, dark hair barrels past Happy towards Peter, knocking Happy's arm. The man's eyes widen as he fumbles with the cake box. If Peter wasn't being tackled like a football player, then he would have been able to save the cake, but Morgan leaps at him and he catches her in his arms instead.

The box tumbles to the ground.

Happy stares down at it, scandalized.

Morgan couldn't be bothered. In her brother's arms, she leans back, wiping her wild hair out of her face, and accuses, "You're late, mister!"

"I know, and I'm _so_ sorry," Peter says, then leans in to whisper, "I had to stop to deal with a bad guy."

Her big brown eyes fill with wonder. Cupping her hands over his ear, she leans in and whispers not-so-quietly, "Did you have to be Spider-Man?"

"Yeah, but I got 'em taken care of," Peter assures with a grin.

Morgan pulls back slightly. "There are bad guys on my birthday?"

"I know, right?" Peter agrees, shaking his head. "How rude of them to be bad guys on your fourth birthday."

Morgan holds up two hands. "Nuh uh, I'm turning _ten_."

Peter's eyes go wide. "Ten? _Already?"_ Morgan nods. Peter shakes his head. "Wow, Morgs, you're getting old."

She giggles, " _You're_ old."

"No, _you're_ old."

"You're three thousand years old," Morgan says, crossing her arms.

Peter narrows his eyes. "Well, you're three thousand and one years old."

"Here I was, thinking my baby girl was four today," Tony pops in, eyeing the cake on the floor as he walks up to them by the door. "What's with the floor cake? I thought I specifically asked you to bring it in-tact."

Peter nods to Happy. "He dropped it."

Happy just grumbles bends down to pick it up.

Morgan wiggles in Peter's hold, so he lets her down. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she grabs Peter's hand and pulls him towards the other kids squealing and shrieking as they throw balloons at each other. "Come on, Petey! Come meet my friends!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming. No need to pull my shoulder out of its socket."

Morgan drags him across the house to the living room where the kids are. She drops his hand and points at him, saying, "Hey guys, this is my brother I was talking about!"

Morgan proceeds to point to each individual kid and call them by name, even though Peter's pretty sure he's going to forget it by the time she's gone through them all. After the introduction, the kids accept him as their own, which leads to them all playing an intense game of tag, Peter included.

The game comes to a halt when Pepper sets out a new cake—Peter noticed that May left for a while before returning with a Walmart bag—on the table. The kids and adults gather around Morgan sitting in front of the cake and sing Happy Birthday. When Pepper encourages her to make a wish, Morgan closes her eyes real tight, holds her breath for a few seconds with puffed-out cheeks, then blows on the four candles stuck in the thick icing. Everyone cheers, but no one cheers louder than Peter.

•

The sun sits low in the sky. The air is cooler now, but that doesn't stop Peter from sitting on the back porch steps as he looks out into the woods around them. When Tony and Pepper first thought about buying the property, they were worried about triggering Peter's trauma from the cabin. At first Peter was skeptical, too, but after coming out to see the property, he didn't really feel any panic or strong emotions. Maybe it was because the woods surrounding the cabin he was trapped in was the only good thing about the cabin. Or maybe he's just passed that.

Either way, sitting out on the back porch, Peter mulls over the past few years and how fast they've passed. Four years ago today, he was in the hospital, holding a newly born Morgan. Now, she's being tucked into bed after getting worn out by celebrating her birthday.

In those four years, life has seemed to just take off. First graduating high school alongside his best friends, then getting into MIT. After finding out that Michelle was also going to attend MIT, Peter made his move and confessed his feelings. He was a rambling, blushing mess, but Michelle cut him off and confessed that she felt the same. And, well, they started dating. At first Peter worried that Ned wouldn't approve, but he was over the moon. Apparently he'd been shipping them throughout high school.

After spending his freshman year of college living in a dorm, Peter and Michelle got an apartment right of campus together. Tony wanted to pay for it all, but both Peter and Michelle insisted they'd cover it.

Living with Michelle is everything Peter could ask for. They have separate rooms, but sometimes—more often than not, now—they sleep together in the same bed. At the beginning Peter was reluctant and timid, but after a while, he realized how much he craves cuddling and how well Michelle's body fits against his. Sometimes he'll sleep by himself, though, but that only happens when he's having a Bad Day, and that hardly ever happens anymore. Michelle can usually tell when he's having a Bad Day. She doesn't push it but she makes sure he isn't alone.

Peter has never had a real relationship before, but even he knows that waiting a full year before having your first kiss with your girlfriend is a long time. Thankfully, Michelle didn't mind the wait. She never tried to initiate a kiss, either, which Peter was secretly glad for. When he was ready and decided to lean in for the first time, she met his lips halfway.

It was nothing like kissing Beck.

(Fuck Beck.)

It was just a kiss, though. It was innocent and quick but still magical and dizzying.

Michelle and Peter kiss quite often now. A good morning kiss, a goodnight kiss, a goodbye kiss, and sometimes hello kisses. They're usually not in public, though. Michelle has expressed her discomfort towards public affection, and Peter has made sure to respect that.

Peter has also learned a lot about himself through his relationship with Michelle. He's learned more about her, too, about how she's asexual but sex-positive. Peter learned that he wanted sex sometimes, but for a while, he was still scared. And, as a guy, that's something he was insecure about for a while. Michelle made sure to squash that insecurity as soon as she noticed it.

"It's perfectly acceptable," she said, wrapping her arms around his middle and resting her head above his heart. "Don't listen to the world, it's full of lies and ignorance."

It helped that he knew Michelle wasn't in a relationship with him with high expectations of having sex.

But that doesn't mean they didn't do anything.

When Michelle was explaining what it meant to be an asexual who is also sex-positive, Peter felt like he was neglecting her or being a bad boyfriend or something, so he kissed her, and it grew passionate.

She asked if she could take his shirt off.

He said yes.

She asked if he was okay.

He said yes.

She asked if she could take her shirt off.

He said yes.

She asked if she could take his pants off.

He said yes.

She asked why he was shaking.

He said that he didn't know.

She didn't ask if he wanted to stop, she just did. She slipped her shirt back on, then helped Peter with his shirt and pants when his hands shook too much to put them back on himself. He cried that night, and Michelle held him and assured him that he wasn't weak or being dramatic. She wiped his tears away and promised he didn't mess anything up between them.

They tried again about a month after that. This time, they went further, but Peter stopped them from going all the way. He nearly cried when Michelle immediately stopped as soon as he asked her to and didn't even try to persuade him into continuing. Unlike Beck, Michelle listened to him.

(Fuck Beck.)

They did end up going all the way one time, just three months ago, and afterwards they snuggled close and didn't let each other go until they absolutely had to untangle themselves to attend class or go to work the next morning.

Peter knows how messed up the whole Beck experience was. He has known this for years. But, throughout his relationship with Michelle, he has been realizing more and more how messed up it all was.

Michelle doesn't try to control him at all. If he wants to leave, he can leave. If he wants some space, she gives him space, but also makes sure to leave him a text or note on the fridge letting him know that she's there for him. If there's an issue, they don't dance around it, she doesn't point an accusing finger in his face and scream at him or hit him or force him to have sex with her because they're dating and as his girlfriend she deserves it. They have arguments sometimes, but they always talk it out and they never scream at each other and she never throws plates or punches.

It's so different from his experience from Beck that he can't even compare them anymore.

(Fuck Beck.)

Peter adores how close Michelle and Morgan are. They aren't as close as Peter and Morgan, but Morgan still flings herself at her whenever she visits with him. Michelle makes Morgan laugh harder than anyone else, and Morgan has the same effect. She brings out a sensitive side of Michelle that she usually doesn't show most people.

It's _nice_.

Sitting there, staring out into the woods, Peter smiles.

The back door slides open behind him. He doesn't have to turn to know who it is.

Tony sits beside Peter, the older man's knees popping as he does. He stares out at the woods before turning to look at Peter.

"You all partied out, too?"

Peter snorts softly and nods, looking down. "Yeah. Those kids seemed to run on an unlimited supply of energy."

"That would be all the sugar," Tony says. "And now, they're probably all having a sugar crash, just like little miss up in her room."

Peter nods again, looking back up to gaze out at the woods. The sky darkens, dimming everything around them, but he doesn't mind.

Peter can still feel Tony's eyes on the side of his face. Eventually, he says, "Penny for your thoughts?"

He shrugs. Dragging his arms up his arms to his shoulders, he turns to Tony and sighs. "I don't know. I just . . . I'm just happy with how things are turning out." He presses his lips in a straight line. "You know, there was a time where I didn't think things would ever get better. I felt so stuck, like I'd always be stuck in this dark hole forever. I honestly didn't imagine making it to twenty."

Tony places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "I'm glad you made it, kiddo."

Peter nods. Meeting Tony's gaze, a soft smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah, me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a ride. I started writing this a little over a month ago because my second semester of college started and I was struggling really bad and had no other way to cope, but as I started posting and people starting commenting and leaving kudos, I decided that I wouldn't just ditch this story like so many of my other stories. 100k words later, and look where we are folks, my longest finished work (and in record time lol). After all of this, I genuinely feel so much better. I don't know if this story actually helped me or not, but I felt like, as Peter was recovering, I was also pulling myself out of my dark hole. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who left comments and kudos, you guys have literally made my day so many times in the past month. And thank you every one who even gave this story a chance. I hope you enjoyed reading Peter's story and I hope there's at least one thing you can take away from it. I'm not really sure if there is anything to take away, but if nothing else, I hope this story has maybe left you feeling less alone or helped you feel like there is hope for a better tomorrow. You may be in a dark place or in a mindset where you just don't see your situation getting better, but I promise, life is worth it, so keep hanging on. Love you all with my whole heart. - K


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